


The Rose of Ithilien

by yellowballs



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Canon, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 52,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowballs/pseuds/yellowballs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The basic outline for this tale exploded in my brain over one feverish holiday weekend. It grew from the conviction that, although the Aragorn/Arwen story was lovely within the mores of the decade in which it was written, it lacked a certain realism. All that ephemeral Elf love was fine for the early part of the 20th century, but I deemed it time for Aragorn to have a 21st century-style romance. </p>
<p>The task I set for myself was to write an alternate romance, something that could slot seamlessly into the canon, minus only Arwen, in terms of timeline and detail.  If I had an idea for the story that was contradicted by something in Tolkien, I abandoned it. Where my story diverges from PJ's films, you can be sure I've kept to Tolkien's version of events instead. </p>
<p>I also determined to maintain as near as possible the tone of the Professor's tales. Therefore, you will not find common earthy terms of our day here.   It was actually quite challenging to devise euphemistic ways to allude to things that might make J.R.R. turn over in his grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Chapter One

With a sharp hissing sound, the dregs of Maranwe's tea hit the embers of the previous night's fire. Sorrow and concern cross her face, as the sounds of retching continue from within the grove of trees behind her. Rising easily from her crouched position, she brushes the last of the tea leaves from her mug with the inside of the tunic she wears. It is fashioned of supple brown deerskin, and falls to mid-thigh. In the sleeveless garment, her arms are bare to the rising heat of that July morning. Beneath the tunic she wears black leggings and rugged black boots. The braided belt at her waist holds a dagger.

  
Maranwe crosses to where her pony is tethered. Reaching into her saddlebag, she extracts a soft leather roll, also of deerskin. She opens it to reveal rows of small individual pockets. With surety, she selects two varieties of dried leaves from within and crushes them into the empty mug. One herb is bitter, the other fresh and sweet. Replacing the roll, she returns to the still smouldering fire. From a small metal pitcher imbedded in the embers, she pours the last of the hot water atop the leaves and covers the cup with her hand. All is now silent from within the trees.

  
Some minutes later a tall man emerges from the grove. His bearing is proud, his hair white. His timeworn face is pale, yet he stoically tries to hide his distress, as he joins her at the fire pit.

  
"Felagund," Maranwe greets him softly. She takes in his haggard appearance. "Here, drink this," she offers, passing him the mug.

He takes it, but makes a face as he brings the hot liquid to his nose. "Chapparal and mint," Maranwe explains simply. "It will help with the pain and soothe your stomach."

  
Felagund sips the bitter brew, then gazes at Maranwe fondly. "Your mother has taught you well."

  
Shaking her head in dismay, Maranwe begins to gather her gear. "She has more skill than I in healing." Maranwe looks upon Felagund with an equal fondness, tinged by growing sadness. "You should seek her care."

  
The older man's eyes grow sorrowful also. "Maranwe," he murmurs. "You are like a daughter to me. With pride have I watched you grow strong and wise. Do you not see that my place is here, rather than in a soft bed in Cair Andros? I fear I will not see our fair isle again."

  
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Maranwe nods her acceptance. They embrace, mentor and pupil, father figure and chosen daughter.

  
The poignant moment is broken by the arrival of two young men on horseback. One is fair-haired, the other dark, but they both have the same strong features. Their attire is similar to that of Felagund: loose dark green tunics with short sleeves, black vests, brown leather pants, well-worn boots.

  
"Bergorad! Hergorad!" Felagund calls out a greeting. "How fresh the trail?"

  
The black-haired youth dismounts lithely. "If they stopped for the night, we may be but five hours behind them," he announces with confidence. "Let us make haste!"

  
"Caution, Bergorad!" the older man admonishes. "We do not wish to draw too close. We may yet have many miles to trail them."

  
"In any case," Bergorad's companion adds glumly, "how oft can we rely on Orcs to stop and make camp? They seem to need no rest."

  
"I mark it a good thing we were no closer to the Orc camp last night," Maranwe suggests in a teasing voice. "Both of you were snoring so loudly, I think I felt the ground shaking." Looks of consternation are quickly followed by peals of laughter all around.

  
'Tis true!" exclaims Bergorad gleefully. "I heard him while I was on guard!" He picks up a piece of fallen bark and launches it playfully in Hergorad's direction.

Neatly side-stepping the small missile, Hergorad draws himself up straighter atop his mount's back. "I heard YOU during my own watch," he responds quickly, in mock defiance. The good-natured banter is common between the two young men, a welcome amusement in the face of the company's dangerous labours.

  
While the mirth lingers, Felagund declares, "Nevertheless, we must be off ere the sun gets much higher." Eyeing the golden orb rising above the horizon, he finishes ruefully, "Or hotter." He proceeds to smother the fire pit with dirt, while Maranwe packs her kit for travel.

  
Still in a playful mood, Bergorad gestures with his chin in the direction of Maranwe and her mount, Freya. "Perhaps we should give those with the shortest legs a head start," he remarks to his scouting partner with a grin.

  
Maranwe turns from securing her saddlebags. It is true that the black and white pinto is smaller that the mounts of the men. It is also true that Maranwe herself is hardly considered tall, standing barely five foot two. She removes a short sword belt from where it rests on Freya's back and girds herself, while countering casually, "We have no need of longer legs, when we are blessed with keen senses, and quickness beyond that of many men." So saying, she mounts with alacrity and spurs her pony alongside the outer flank of Bergorad's horse. Without slowing, she grabs the reins from his hand and swiftly rides off, leaving a startled Bergorad flat-footed and horseless.

  
A short way beyond the company, Maranwe expertly turns both equines and laughingly calls back, "Now whose legs are the shortest?" Amidst a fresh round of merriment, Bergorad touches his forehead and bows low in acquiescence.

****************************

The unforgiving sun stands directly overhead when the company tops the rise. They find themselves in a large clearing, leading up to a rocky outcropping. From the line of trees on their oblique right, a lazy thrumming ebbs and flows. Lulled by the song of the insects and the shimmering heat, Maranwe fights the urge to daydream.

Felagund raises a hand to halt the group. He and Hergorad drop to the ground, stooping to examine the trail of those they pursue. The clearing is strewn with large rocks, leading to the crown of boulders on the grassy hillock ahead.

  
Maranwe dismounts to rest Freya, and finds an apple in her bag for the filly. Affectionately stroking the beautiful animal's long forehead, Maranwe observes aloud, "The horses must be thirsty."

Bergorad, closest to the tree line, cocks his head. "I think I hear the sound of water beyond these woods." Pausing to lend her ears, Maranwe becomes aware that the insects have grown silent.

Suddenly, flaring her nostrils, eyes rolling, Freya backs up skittishly. Maranwe does not immediately try to calm her mount. She watches the pony with growing unease. In her years in the wild, she has learned to trust the instincts of her equine companion, in some matters more than those of her human companions.

The stillness is further broken, as Bergorad's horse begins to side step, whinnying nervously. Suddenly a great murder of crows rises from the trees, flapping into the air with shrill, raucous cries. In that same instant, dozens of screaming Orcs swarm into the clearing from the woods. Two fearsome specimens strike down Bergorad and his horse instantly.

  
"AMBUSH!!!!!!" screams Maranwe, drawing her sword.


	2. Chapter Two

Gratefully, two thirsty travelers approach the stream. First to drink is a long-legged chestnut stallion with a white blaze. He lowers his graceful neck to the waters' edge. Second to drink is a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in the simple black clothing of one who wanders the wilderness. Aragorn cups his hands and splashes the cool, refreshing water over his rugged face, before drinking greedily.

  
It has been a long and perilous road, these years spent searching for the creature known as Gollum. Tirelessly has Aragorn trailed his prey, even to the very Gates of Mordor. Finally, his diligence has been rewarded, and the vile sneak now lies imprisoned by the Elves of Mirkwood. The capture of Gollum is but a small blow against the Evil rising in the East; still, it may confound the Enemy for a time. In any case, Aragorn is glad to be rid of the creature, and on his way back to the outpost in the North.

Stooping to refill his water supply, his keen ranger's instincts note the sudden silence in the trees behind him. Aragorn casts his gaze around them warily, as he secures the dripping waterskins alongside his saddlebags. "Ready to move on, Bragi?" he asks the handsome horse.

Suddenly, the harsh sound of scores of screeching crows shatters the silence. On its heels comes the fell voice of many Orcs, screaming in bloodlust.

Aragorn vaults onto Bragi's back and spurs the stallion up the steep slopes of the stream bank. Drawing his sword when they reach the top, he gallops swiftly in the direction of the battle.

****************************

The fight has not gone well. The company is badly outnumbered, and Bergorad is already fallen. Maranwe and her remaining companions are locked in deadly battle.

Aragorn emerges from the timberline to see three figures desperately pitted against a force of Orcs many times their number. A fierce gleam comes to light in his eyes. Swinging his blade in a wide arc, Aragorn charges on horseback into the midst of the battle. He beheads the two nearest Orcs, before leaping to the ground. Immediately in front of him, he sees a young man being set upon heavily by four large attackers. Three of them abandon their assault on Hergorad to face this new challenge. Twisting to meet them, Aragorn runs his sword through the first, ducking the blows of the others. With a cry of triumph, Hergorad dispatches the foe that still harries him, but is jumped from behind by another enemy. With a bloodthirsty scream, the hideous Orc slits Hergorad's throat and throws his body to the ground.

Meanwhile, Aragorn has mortally wounded two more of the enemy. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a tall man with white hair fighting valiantly nearby, beset by several assailants. Aragorn scrambles to come to the man's aid, but is tackled by the Orc with the knife. He narrowly dodges the slashing blow, before slicing off his attacker's arm. Rolling and leaping to his feet in one fluid motion, Aragorn joins Felagund in mortal battle. The ringing clash of metal on metal fills the air. The two men fight mightily, and one by one, Orc bodies fall to the ground.

During the fight, Aragorn becomes aware of the third member of the company, a small figure against the towering Orc fighters. This warrior compensates for the size difference with great agility, deftly diving under blows, making deadly, accurate thrusts against many a lumbering, off-balance attacker.

  
Eventually, the swords of the two men take their toll in Orc blood. With a rare second to spare, the white-haired warrior scans the battle scene. He focuses on the sight of his last companion being driven back to the tree line before four mighty foes. Felagund wades into the midst of these attackers, and fells the first with a blade across the back.

Aragorn's attention is still held by the coordinated attack of two tenacious Orcs. They come at him fiercely from opposite directions, roaring in hatred. Drawing his knife with his free hand, Aragorn spins around to face the onslaught.

Meanwhile, Felagund now fights beside Maranwe, but his might is not what it once was. He is weakening. With a feint, the menacing Orc he battles slashes Felagund's sword arm deeply. Maranwe dispatches another enemy, only to look up and see her mentor fall to his knees. Their eyes meet momentarily. Then, with a grunt, the Orc buries his sword to the hilt in Felagund's back. In rage, Maranwe charges at Felagund's slayer. Summoning all her might, she raises her blade behind her head with both arms and cuts him down. She moves quickly to withdraw her sword from the Orc's body, but in the moment it pulls free, Maranwe's weapon is knocked from her hands by a shattering blow. She falls backward and is painfully pinned at swordpoint.   She looks up into the dead eyes of pure evil.

  
Aragorn rises from where he has just slit the throat of his final attacker. He swivels his head in time to see one last huge Orc looming over the helpless warrior. Aragorn's eyes narrow. In the next second, his dagger leaves his hand, flies through the air with deadly precision, and buries itself in the neck of Maranwe's executioner. The final foe falls heavily to the ground.

In the silence of aftermath, Aragorn surveys the battle scene, looking more closely at the men who have fallen. By their raiment, he deems them to be Rangers of Ithilien, some of whom have come to aid his own Dunedain of the North in recent years. He strides over to the body of the last Orc to fall and retrieves his dagger.

Breathing heavily from the exertion and adrenaline, Maranwe rises to her feet. Only then does Aragorn realize that the diminutive ranger is not another young man, but rather a woman. Her long, dark brown hair has escaped its thong tie, and hangs thickly about her shoulders. A crescent of soft bangs frames her olive-green eyes. Her high cheekbones are flushed from battle. Her narrow, steeply-sloping nose flares with every deep breath. An anguished cry escapes her lips.

  
Maranwe goes to the side of each of her fallen comrades. One by one, she carefully composes them in death, gently closing their eyes. Lastly she tends to Felagund, placing a farewell kiss upon his brow. Only after she has paid her respects to the dead, does she rise and face the stranger. She notes in his bearing and manner of dress a distant kinship to her lost companions.

Her green eyes meet his. "I am in your debt, Dunadan," she speaks solemnly. "Yet would I that you had arrived but five minutes earlier."

  
Aragorn raises a hand, acknowledging her gratitude, yet at the same time deflecting it. "You owe me no debt. We all fight the same Evil." He gestures to the carnage around them. "Yet I too regret not being here sooner." They both take in the scene.

  
After a long pause, Aragorn speaks again. "I have heard of the Lady Ranger among the company of Dunedain from the South. They say she can best many a man of greater stature." Maranwe turns in mild surprise. "By what name are you known?" he asks gently.

  
"My name is Maranwe."

  
"A Quenya name," Aragorn remarks with some curiosity, as if to himself.

  
"So I am told," Maranwe responds, looking closely for the first time at this stranger to whom she owes her life. He is tall and athletic, dressed in well-worn black clothing. Long dark hair frames his strong face. A short, coarse beard adorns his classic jawline. Tanned, weathered skin speaks of many days and nights spent in the wilderness. Piercing eyes, at once grey and blue and green, speak of great wisdom and mystery.

"And how are you called, Dunadan?" Maranwe asks softly.

  
Aragorn answers simply. "I am called Strider."

  
Maranwe inclines her head. "Well met, Strider of the Dunedain."

  
"Well met, indeed, Maranwe of Ithilien." They hold each other's gaze for a fraction longer than necessary. Then, casting an eye over the battleground, Aragorn announces brusquely, "Come, let us tend to the fallen."


	3. Chapter Three

The stench is almost overwhelming. Grimacing, Aragorn covers his nose and mouth with a scarf, as he thrusts his torch into the pile of Orc bodies. Angry flames and acrid black smoke quickly engulf the mound.

Backing away, he gathers Bragi's reigns and moves upwind. As he goes, he stops to gather loose rocks and load them onto the travois he has fashioned behind the horse's flanks. Eventually, he delivers the burden to where Maranwe works.

A wide burial cairn has grown to cover the bodies of the fallen rangers and their faithful mount. Nearby, Maranwe has gathered a token from each man: the elder son's family ring from Bergorad, an ornate knife with inlaid handle from Hergorad, Felagund's tattered book of verse. Alongside this collection lie the three swords of the warriors, now forlorn in their silent vigil.

Glancing back across the clearing at the noxious pyre of dead Orcs, Aragorn remarks, "We will be fortunate if the direction of the wind holds true."

After placing another large stone, Maranwe pauses in the early afternoon heat, brushing her bangs off her forehead. She and Aragorn have been working together for over an hour, and both are streaked with perspiration and grime. Mercifully, the sad task is nearly complete. Shading her eyes, Maranwe searches the horizon. "The three remaining horses are scattered," she notes with concern. "Did you see any sign of them?"

Aragorn shakes his head, then considers. "There is sufficient pasture and water," he offers kindly. "They may yet find their way safely home."

"They may," Maranwe agrees with a small, grateful smile. Her practical side takes over, and she remarks wryly, "It will be a long road for me to Cair Andros on foot."

"You are far from home," acknowledges Aragorn. "How long have you and your company been in the North?" He begins to unload the travois, while Maranwe returns to her task.

"A messenger reached Ithilien some three years ago, telling of the growing Evil that lurks along the Rivendell Road and other points north. We left immediately." Maranwe's voice trails briefly into memory. "Our company may have been few, but we had experience in matters of sabotage. Many were the raids we made along the borders of Ithilien that face eastwards."

  
After a pause, she resumes her narrative in a matter-of-fact tone. "We traveled to join the fight here, harassing the enemy as far north as Annuminas and the shores of Lake Evendim."

  
"The lost city of Annuminas, once the throne of the North Kingdom," Aragorn interjects with quiet dignity.

  
Maranwe advises, "It is a fell place now."

  
Aragorn nods gravely. "I have been there…………………and may yet go again." This strikes Maranwe as an odd thing to say. She looks at Aragorn curiously, but lets the remark pass.

  
She continues, "Three days past, we came across the trail of these Orcs near Weathertop. We tracked them, hoping they would lead us to their base. We had no intention of engaging them openly." Maranwe pauses in bitter reflection. "They must have sensed our pursuit. They doubled back and laid in wait to ambush us. We were simply overwhelmed."

  
"Your company fought bravely and with honor," Aragorn states with conviction. "I will see their deeds are not forgotten."

  
Maranwe accepts this recognition with a faint smile and a dip of her chin. Looking closely at Aragorn, she then asks, "How is it that our paths have not crossed before, Dunadan? We have encountered many of your kinsfolk in three years' time, yet I have not seen you."

  
Aragorn glances up to meet her gaze. "I have been on an errand of long years' striving, beyond the Misty Mountains and the Great River. This is my return journey," he explains guardedly.

  
With genuine interest and empathy, Maranwe queries, "And was your errand well-completed?"

  
Aragorn hesitates before answering truthfully, "Well enough for now, I deem." Nodding, Maranwe stoops to lift another stone.

  
At that moment, over Maranwe's back, Aragorn spies movement at the edge of the clearing. It is Freya, returning, wary, testing the wind for any scent of danger. Stepping closer to where Maranwe stands, Aragorn clasps her upper arm lightly. Turning, she meets his eyes for a fraction of a second. A spark of awareness passes between them. Then Aragorn silently indicates the approaching pony.

As Maranwe draws away across the clearing, Aragorn admires her calm and confident movements. The memory of her soft skin lingers on his fingertips. He is aware of an attraction for her, and of its inappropriateness in this situation. He watches as Maranwe speaks quiet, soothing words to the pinto filly. Trustingly, Freya rests her head on Maranwe's shoulder. A tender smile touches Aragorn's lips, as he recognizes the bond between the two.

Returning to the place of the cairn with the now serene horse at her side, Maranwe murmurs fondly, "My heart is gladdened that you at least have returned to me, Freya old friend." She strokes the long neck of her faithful companion, before turning her loose to graze.

In companionable silence, the two survivors of the battle continue the job of burial. Finally, the task is finished. Maranwe sighs with a heavy heart before placing the last stone. Then she retrieves each of the fallen warriors' swords. Planting her feet wide, she drives the blades one by one into the ground at the head of the cairn. The last is the mighty sword of Felagund. As its tip bites into the earth at her feet, Maranwe bows her head, and slumps against her outstretched arms.

  
"I leave you to your grief." Aragorn bows his own head in sympathy, retreating respectfully.

*************************

The once fierce fire of enemy bodies is but a passive pile of smoke and ash when Aragorn returns. He finds Maranwe sitting atop a small boulder on the natural hillock that commands the surrounding area. A massive rock wall juts out of the earth behind them. The ground here is otherwise smooth and grassy, with only a few large stones and dwarf-sized rocks strewn about. Aragorn leans against the nearest one and turns his attention to the lady ranger.

  
Her face is calm. She has her eyelids closed, allowing the warm afternoon breeze to caress her skin. Eventually she opens her eyes and smiles warmly at him. Noting her composure, Aragorn observes, "You show great strength."

  
Maranwe glances down the length of the field to the burial mound. Some distance beyond lies the charnel heap of their enemies. She speaks reflectively. "We have all cheated death many times. Each of us came to terms with the spectre of this day long ago." Turning her gaze back to the Man of the North, she admits, "Yet I do not relish returning to my homeland with news of their deaths."

  
Aragorn seems about to speak, then hesitates before asking quietly, "Were any of these your companions more to you than comrades-in-arms………………….and friends?" The words and their unspoken question hang in the air.

Maranwe is silent for a moment, considering. Her gaze narrows ever so slightly. "The older man was my mentor, and the nearest to a father I have ever known," she answers carefully.

Aragorn nods in sympathetic understanding. "I am sorry."

  
With a shake of her head, Maranwe dismisses any pity for Felagund or herself. "He was ill. It is better he died on the battlefield than wasting away in the house of a healer."

  
Aragorn looks down, studiously fiddling with the hilt of his sword, rubbing out imaginary smudges with his thumb. "And the other men?"

  
Again glancing towards the cairn, Maranwe recalls fondly, "Two brothers, like siblings to me. I will miss their teasing and humour." Then she turns, locking Aragorn's eyes with frankness. "So no, in the way that you are asking, I am alone."

  
For a long moment, they look at each other steadily, until Maranwe slides her gaze away. "And what of you, Dunadan? Do you carry the token of a fine maiden from a far-away land?"

  
Aragorn does not reply immediately. His grey eyes swim in mystery. Finally he answers simply, "I am also alone."


	4. Chapter Four

The dance of pursuit is stimulating to him. She looks back over her shoulder teasingly and moves away across the field. Bragi gives a high-spirited whinny and trots after the little filly. Swinging her tail in a lazy arc, Freya pauses, almost allowing him to catch up before sidling off again. Head held high, Bragi follows, intent on the game. However, his concentration is marred by the interruption of a sharp whistle. Tossing his head, the high-stepping stallion breaks away in response to Aragorn's summons. He neighs in annoyance, but joins his rider in the middle of the field, catching his gait slightly on the way.   
  
"You like the looks of her, eh?" Aragorn ask with a low chuckle. Glancing sideways back to the outcropping where Maranwe sits, he confides, "You are not the only one." 

  
Squatting on his heels beside the horse's flank, Aragorn gently and expertly lifts each hoof. Bragi nickers, but allows the examination. A small stone soon reveals itself, lodged under the lip of one horseshoe. Carefully, Aragorn removes it using the tip of his dagger. A soft whinny behind him announces Freya's approach. A nudge on his back signifies the first overture of friendship. He holds out his hand, and the piebald pony nuzzles his rough palm with her soft nose. 

  
From her vantage point on the boulder, Maranwe observes the horses at play, and Aragorn's foray into the field. She notes with approval his skill with the animals. She laughs in surprise to see Freya succumbing so easily. Like her rider, the independent filly does not freely offer her trust. 

  
These thoughts naturally lead Maranwe to reflect on her own feelings regarding this man of few words and quiet strength. She has been touched by his selfless courage, and by his kindness to her in the past hours. Indeed, she owes him her life, yet he has made no demands on her. She is also not immune to his physical appeal. There is no denying the flash of her own response when he touched her arm, nor the undercurrent of their recent conversation. Briefly, she allows herself to speculate.   


After a time, Aragorn ascends the slight incline leading Bragi, with Freya following docilely. The chestnut stallion fights the bridle in an attempt to keep the pinto filly in sight. Grinning, Aragorn remarks, "Bragi seems quite taken with Freya." 

  
"And she with you," Maranwe responds enigmatically. They laugh easily together, as Freya attempts a search for apples in Aragorn's vestment pocket. 

  
The sun's rays are slipping lower now, casting shadows as they skim the tall treetops. Squinting into the westering sky, Aragorn declares decisively, "There is water nearby, and we have a defensible position. We should make camp here and rest." 

  
"Agreed." Maranwe hops down from her perch, absent-mindedly trying in vain to rub some of the grime from her arms. 

  
Aragorn takes note of this with amusement. "These trees follow the bed of a fair-sized stream. The watercourse curves back on itself just beyond that spot." He indicates a point behind the rock wall where the tree line draws closer. "A natural pool for bathing is created by the bend of the stream." 

  
"That is welcome news," Maranwe admits, laughing. "However, I will first see to making a fire, and getting a cup of tea to clear my head." 

  
"As you wish," Aragorn replies gallantly. "I will make use of the pool meantimes." He clucks softly to Bragi, and the two head off in the direction of the nearest stretch of trees. Intrigued, Maranwe takes time to study his retreating form, his easy masculine grace, his purposeful stride. 

  
Once alone, Maranwe busies herself gathering moss and kindling. She then goes to Freya's side, where she delves into her bag to extract a nearly empty waterskin. Anchoring her pony's reins with a rock, Maranwe crosses the clearing at a ninety-degree angle from the direction of Aragorn's departure. A short walk under the towering birchwoods brings her to the water. 

  
The streambed is deep, the banks at this point steep and slippery. Maranwe moves quietly upstream until she finds a spot where she can scramble down to the water's edge. The beauty of the flickering light on the surface and the soothing sounds of the liquid song are mesmerizing. She lingers after filling her waterskin, lost in thought. Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she meanders along the channel's margin, gathering pungent watercress here and there from the clear moving catchpools. 

  
The nickering of a horse from the trail above breaks the silence. Hand on her dagger, Maranwe quickly and quietly climbs to the top of the bank and looks over. 

  
She finds herself, not overlooking the encampment of an Orc, but rather gazing from a hidden vantage point towards the pool in which Aragorn bathes. He is facing her, waist deep in the water, unaware of her presence. Powerless to tear her eyes away, Maranwe watches as Aragorn throws his head back and shakes the droplets from his long, dark hair. He raises his strong arms and runs his hands back over his scalp. Then he abruptly steps forward, out of the pool.   


An involuntary gasp escapes Maranwe's lips, before she is able to duck below the embankment. With heart pounding, whether from the danger of discovery or from something else, she holds her breath. Only after several moments does she dare to exhale. Then, clutching her flagon to her breast, Maranwe slips silently down to the water's edge and makes her way carefully and noiselessly back to the campsite.

*******************************

By the time Aragorn reappears on the hillock, a small fire is crackling in the lee of the monolith. The aromatic bouquet of herbs drifts up from a soot-covered pewter pitcher, steeping near the flames. Maranwe has spread a well-traveled blanket on the grass, where she kneels, separating sprigs of cress. 

  
"I see you have been busy." 

  
Maranwe glances up, then quickly away, the scene at the pool still burned in her mind. "There is tea if you wish some." 

  
"Thank you. Tea would be welcome." Aragorn wears a fresh long-sleeved shirt, deep red, with a loose open neckline that tapers in a V to mid-chest. His still-damp hair leaves a trail of moisture across the shoulders. 

  
With an effort, Maranwe concentrates on pouring, while Aragorn tethers Bragi alongside Freya. "I have but the one mug," Maranwe murmurs in explanation, standing and offering him her own vessel by its handle. Nodding his thanks, Aragorn envelops the cup with both his hands, momentarily brushing his fingertips lightly across hers. And in that moment, looking into his grey eyes, Maranwe makes her decision.   


"My turn," she announces with a slow, unfathomable smile. Then, gathering Freya's reins, Maranwe promptly withdraws around the corner of the rock face.


	5. Chapter Five

 

The clash of his emotions is like a physical blow, as Aragorn watches Maranwe's departure. He is unnerved by her air of quiet self-possession, by her frank intelligence laced with its hint of wry humour and mystery. He cannot deny to himself the growing attraction he feels for her. Yet to act boldly on his feelings in the face of her grief would be unseemly. And it is almost certain they will never see one another again.   


In frustration, Aragorn picks up a stone from the ground at his feet and pitches it sideways against the rock wall. The sharp report and resultant ricochet of rock chips do little to appease him.   


"Might as well do something useful," he mutters to himself after a moment, tossing back his tea. So saying, he collects the fishing line from his satchel and heads for the downstream arm of the forest.

****************************   


The afternoon sunlight still shines fully in the open space surrounding the pool. Freed of the burden of Maranwe's gear, Freya steps to the stream's edge and satisfies herself with a long drink, while her rider prepares to bathe. Beside the basin of water that collects inside the channel's elbow, Maranwe's pack yields a precious store. It is a small, wide-mouthed, earthenware jar, filled with an aromatic paste: the herbal soap that Maranwe's mother long ago taught her to make.   


Thankfully, Maranwe removes her weapons, boots, tunic, and leggings, and lowers herself into the pool. The cool water washes refreshingly across her sticky skin, as she lays back and floats in languid abandonment. Eventually, she stands and reaches for the vial of cleanser. The rosemary compound makes a fragrant lather, as Maranwe begins to wash her thick hair.

****************************

 Aragorn holds up the stringer - only two small fish. He shakes his head impatiently. Perhaps the bigger fish are feeding upstream, he speculates to himself. Returning to the top of the streambank, he hikes silently along the trail above the watershed. His practiced woodsman's eye studies the course of the water and the lay of the land. Gradually, the streambed begins to rise, easing the pitch of its banks.   


So intent is Aragorn on spotting a natural piscine feeding site among the waterside vegetation, he does not fully realize how far upstream he has traveled. Topping a slight rise, he finds himself without warning at the same hidden vantage point overlooking the pool. Mesmerized, knowing he should turn away but having no will to do so, Aragorn drinks in the scene, as Maranwe suns herself in the waning rays of the sun. She lies on her back in the grass, eyes closed, arms over her head, one leg bent up casually at the knee. Her body is petite yet shapely, feminine yet fit. He watches breathlessly, as one delicate hand drops down to trace lazy fingers in the hollow of her taut stomach. For several helpless minutes, Aragorn is frozen in place. Finally, when the ache grows too great for him to bear, he turns away and quietly retraces his footsteps.   


**************************   


Behind her shuttered eyes, Maranwe too is battling her emotions. It has been many seasons since she has given herself to a man. Of course there have been lovers along the way -- fleeting, chance encounters for the most part -- and this was likely to be the same. Yet this mysterious ranger is different. He takes her breath away, makes her feel like she is losing control. When she looks into his eyes, she feels as if she is experiencing something totally new, yet something deeply familiar at the same time. 

  
With an impatient shake of her head, Maranwe leaps up from the grassy poolside. Bending at the waist, she runs her hands vigorously through her long locks to hasten the drying process. Ultimately, she ceases with the moisture only partially evaporated, leaving her thick waves free to the afternoon breeze. Selecting her tunic from the pile of clothing nearby, she raises her arms and drops the supple garment over her head. Her woven belt she fastens loosely at her waist, along with her dagger. Leggings and boots go back into the saddlebag. 

  
Lastly she gathers up her herbal kit. As she tucks it away, Maranwe's hand brushes a small velvet bag at the bottom of her pannier. Drawing it out, she opens the soft purse and gazes for a moment at its contents. Then she returns the black bag and its cargo to their hiding place. A gentle whistle brings Freya. Dropping her sword belt and gear bag across the pony's loins, Maranwe departs, picking her way barefoot back to the campsite.

*************************** 

 

Aragorn looks up at the sound of their approach. Instantly, the delicate scent of citrus and rosemary engages his nostrils. He takes in Maranwe's sun-kissed face, her lustrous hair, the rich dark colour of roasted chestnuts. His eyes linger for a long moment on the sight of her slender, muscular legs, bare beneath the short hem of her tunic. Now he cannot help but wonder what the coming night might bring. 

  
Maranwe's breath deepens, as she perceives Aragorn's appreciative gaze. When he looks back into her face, there is an intensity in his grey eyes that is new. With a feeling of helplessness, she wonders what her own eyes might give away at this point.   


In the end, it is Maranwe who speaks first. Noticing the two fish suspended on a makeshift spit, she echoes lightly, "I see you have also been busy." 

  
An apologetic wave of the hand from Aragorn is her response. "Only two small ones." He seems slightly discomfited. 

  
Retrieving her boots and placing them beside the fire, Maranwe remarks with teasing sarcasm, "That is poor 'fortune' indeed ………….for a Master of the Wilderness such as yourself. I thought I was gone long enough." 

  
From where he sits turning the fish, Aragorn flashes her a playful look of warning. "Careful, Lady Ranger." Then, tongue-in-cheek, he drops his gaze back to the task in front of him, and answers truthfully, "I became distracted."


	6. Chapter Six

They slouch companionably side-by-side near the fire, two muddy pairs of ranger’s boots, a contrast in sizes. The picture is mirrored in the image of their owners, as the two wilderness wanderers sit cross-legged beside the cooking spit and partake of a meager meal.  
 

While they sup, Maranwe shares what knowledge she has of the Enemy’s activities in the North during the time Aragorn has been away. He questions her about the actions of her own ill-fated company, and listens with growing respect to her modest recitation of their daring deeds. With direct yet gentle inquiries, Maranwe draws from the reticent Ranger tales of his far-flung travels in Middle-earth. She senses a deeper story behind his words, yet contents herself with whatever he is willing to give. The almost lyrical rise and fall of his voice holds her in rapt fascination, as the first stars of twilight begin to wink in and out above them. 

  
The fire is burning low, surrounding them with the heady scent of wood smoke, when Aragorn finally rises to retrieve another piece of deadfall from the pile. Using water from the flagon that lies between them, Maranwe leans forward to rinse her knife over the grass. 

“The fish was well-seasoned,” she compliments sincerely. “I thank you for preparing the meal.”  

“It was not much, even with the greens you gathered,” Aragorn confesses ruefully. “No doubt you still have an appetite.”

  
Wiping her blade on the blanket’s edge beneath her feet, Maranwe agrees somewhat archly, “No doubt.” She strikes the dagger into the ground as if to punctuate her words.  
  
 

As Aragorn returns to sit beside her, he drops more wood onto the fire. Glancing sidelong at Maranwe, he asks with interest, “Have you family yet dwelling in Cair Andros?”

  
Pulling her knees up under her chin and clasping her hands across her ankles, Maranwe gazes into the renewed blaze. “None save my mother,” she responds fondly.

 

“You have no siblings?”

  
An almost imperceptible shake of Maranwe’s head precedes her words. “I am an only child,” she says with a touch of long-ago loneliness.

  
“I, too, am an only child,” reveals Aragorn after a moment’s reflection. Pushing the curtain of her hair behind one ear, Maranwe turns to him and smiles in understanding. Presently, wishing to know more about this enigmatic woman whose path has crossed his, Aragorn prompts, “So your heritage lies among the Men of the Island.” It is not a question.

  
However, Maranwe’s reply is circumspect. “When I was but a babe, my mother and I were given refuge among the Rangers on Cair Andros. I was raised there.” She turns her face back to the fire. “My mother ministers as Healer to the Dunedain of the South.”

  
Aragorn’s keen mind hones in on the evasion. “Yet it seems you do not claim their heritage for yourself,” he notes.   
  
  

“I have no claims,” Maranwe responds succinctly.

 

Aragorn picks up the stout branch he has set aside and stirs the fire, deftly flipping the now-blackened knot of wood he has just added. His words are gentle. “And what of your father?”

 

A look of pain and confusion touches Maranwe’s eyes. “My father is lost to me,” she states quietly. 

  
Aragorn’s own eyes echo the pain he sees in Maranwe’s face. “That is a loss I know also.”

  
Turning, Maranwe places her hand briefly on Aragorn’s forearm in shared sympathy. After a pause, she attempts to shift the focus away from herself. “And where was your home as a child?”

  
Now it is Aragorn’s turn to be evasive. “It is East of here,” he answers vaguely.

  
“I thought none save Elves and Orcs dwelt much to the East from this place,” Maranwe remarks discerningly. Then, considering, and understanding something of the lifespan of the Northern Dunedain, she allows respectfully, “Still, I have little knowledge of days so long past.”

  
Gazing upon the face of this woman who makes him feel so at ease, Aragorn desires nothing more than to be open with her. He does not wish to keep secrets, but is constrained by the bounds of his own destiny. He knows the time has not yet come to reveal his true past and identity. With a sigh, he keeps his council and returns to tending the flames. 

Sensing an impasse, Maranwe opens a more general topic. “Tell me of your childhood,” she encourages him softly. 

Aragorn does not respond immediately. Returning in his mind to those long-ago days in Rivendell, a smile lights his countenance. With quiet respect and happiness, he recalls, “The days of my youth were peaceful and filled with learning. There were many who taught me in the ways of wisdom, and of the earth around us……….and in the tales of old. It was an invaluable upbringing.”

  
Maranwe pauses to envision his words, then inquires intimately, “What is your most abiding memory?”

  
In the warm glow of the firelight, Aragorn’s face seems to grow more youthful before her eyes, as he relives the first boyhood stirrings of adult emotions. “The days and nights of poetry and songs,” he remembers with longing. “These things fill my heart with either joy or sorrow, according to their kind, even to this day.”

  
Not wishing to break the mood of the moment, Maranwe asks in a near-whisper, “Will you share one with me now? A joyful song?”

  
The crackling of the fire is the only sound for several long moments. Then Aragorn closes his eyes and begins to sing softly. It is a haunting melody that stirs Maranwe’s soul. His low voice gently caresses the lyrics, as passion plays across his handsome face. Maranwe is captivated, transported, even though the language itself is foreign to her.

In the silence after the song’s ending, she pauses to gather her thoughts. Finally, with complete honesty, she says simply, “That was the most beautiful song I have ever heard, though I understood not a word. What is its meaning?”

  
Aragorn does not meet her eyes when he answers. “It is an Elvish tongue…………a lover’s lay.”

  
Maranwe’s heart skips a beat. She studies Aragorn’s profile for a moment before looking away, at the same time suggesting, ”Surely you are able to render this verse in the Common Speech.”

  
“I am,” Aragorn agrees evenly, still facing the fire. With the dancing flames reflected in his grey eyes, he drops his voice and recites quietly,

 

  
  
_"In twilight, you touch me_  
_Your kisses kindle hidden fires_  
_Our souls, intertwined,_  
_Fall forever from the precipice."_


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Herbals of the Ferula species were widely used in ancient times to prevent pregnancy.

Maranwe inhales deeply and waits with bated breath. When Aragorn makes no further move, she cannot help but interject a question. Raising one eyebrow, she queries with mild skepticism, “This you learned as a child?”

  
 Aragorn scratches the back of his head, left-handed. “More so as a young man,” he admits with a self-conscious grin. “It is an ancient song in the homeland of my youth.” As he drops his hand back to rest on his thigh, the glow of the firelight is suddenly caught in the deep green crystal of a ring he wears on his forefinger.  
  
 

 Maranwe’s eyes are drawn to the reflection. “Your ring is most unusual,” she observes with a tilt of her head. “May I take closer look?” Aragorn turns to her and nods his permission.  
  
 

 Slowly, Maranwe slips her delicate hand up Aragorn’s thigh and under his strong fingers. Raising his hand close to her breast, she examines the ring, softly tracing its design with her forefinger. The piece is crafted of finest silver and accented with gold, depicting the form of two intertwined snakes. Between the serpents’ heads, a fiery, many-faceted green gem reflects both flames and moonlight.  
  
 

 Palm against palm, she holds his hand in hers. Her thigh occasionally brushes his as they sit cross-legged together. Aragorn looks down at the top of her head, her dark hair shining in the firelight. Maranwe looks up into his eyes and asks innocently, “Is this a family heirloom?”

  
 “You could say that,” Aragorn replies guardedly, growing uncomfortably aware of her closeness.  
  
 

 Sensing the effect she is having on him, and growing more than a little distracted herself, Maranwe remarks absently, “It reminds me of something that I have…” --she glances back down-- “ ….once seen.” Turning his hand over with both of hers, Maranwe briefly massages his rough palm with her thumbs. Lightly she runs her fingertip across the spiral engraving of the ring’s circlet, then slowly up the underside of Aragorn’s finger to the tip. Then she rises without a word and walks away into the gathering darkness.  
  
 

 Left alone, Aragorn exhales somewhat unsteadily and shifts position, leaning back on his hands and extending his legs toward the fire. When Maranwe returns, she brings with her two broad, short candles from her personal stores. These she places in the grass along each side of the blanket. Returning to her spot at Aragorn’s left, she kneels and leans toward the fire. Steadying herself with one hand on the ground, she stretches out to pluck a small twig from the very edge of the bed of coals. Aragorn watches with rapt attention, his degree of discomfort beyond disguising, as the hem of Maranwe’s tunic slides in the direction of her hips.  
  
   

 Maranwe straightens with the twig alight and applies it to the wick closest to her. Then, in a move not entirely uncalculated, she turns and leans across Aragorn’s lap. Again balancing on her knees and one hand, she takes her time lighting the second candle.  
  
 

Maranwe closes her eyes, as she feels Aragorn’s hand, rough-skinned yet warm and gentle, caress her thigh. She is aware of the coolness of his ring against the warmth of her skin. She holds her breath. When she feels his hand move seductively up under her tunic, she swings her other leg across and straddles him. As Aragorn loosens the leather thong around her waist, Maranwe blows out the flaming tinderstick and tosses it over her shoulder in the direction of the fire.   She raises her arms, and he easily slides her lone piece of clothing over her head.

  
 Silently, Aragorn takes her in with his eyes, as Maranwe’s breath quickens. With one hand on his shoulder, she reaches out and caresses first his face, then his muscular chest through the open neck of his shirt. In one swift movement, Aragorn pulls the garment off and casts it aside.

  
  In exquisite slow motion, beginning at her thighs, Aragorn runs his hands up the back of Maranwe’s body, burying the splayed fingers of one palm in the thick waves at the nape of her neck. Pulling her down against him, he clasps their two bodies together in a burning embrace. Finally their lips meet, with the intense hunger of a long-awaited first kiss.  
  
 

 As their passion mounts, Maranwe arches her spine and leans back in his arms. When Aragorn begins to kiss her breasts, Maranwe drops her head back and gives voice to a low moan. His kisses are warm and open. Her fingers play sensually through his long hair and across the back of his head, as Maranwe loses all track of time.  
  
 

 Eventually, the gentle pressure of Aragorn’s hands on her waist brings Maranwe back into a kneeling position. She opens her eyes and looks down into his impassioned face. Aragorn locks her gaze in his, then slowly opens the front of his trousers and slips them off his hips. With one hand on Maranwe’s bottom he guides her, lowering her onto himself. Their simultaneous groans of pleasure as he enters her mingle with the sounds of the forest at night and the crackling of the fire.  
  
 

For a moment, eyes closed, breathing in unison, neither dare to move, as their senses hover on the brink. Then, placing his hand against her ribcage, Aragorn circles Maranwe’s still-wet nipple with his thumb. Her hips rotate to his timing, and she gasps helplessly as waves of ecstasy quickly overcome her. Aragorn clasps her body tightly around his, exploding inside her with hours of pent-up passion.  
  
 

With the passing of the first wave, they remain content in their embrace, breathing softly against each other’s skin. Eventually Maranwe stirs, but Aragorn will not let her leave without one more intense kiss, assuring them both that they are far from finished for the evening.  
  
 

After Maranwe breaks away, Aragorn completes the removal of his clothing, even having the presence of mind to toss another piece of wood on the fire. When he turns back to the woman with whom he shares the campfire, Maranwe is on her knees, reaching over her head, stretching her spine. As her arms drop back to her sides, she rolls her shoulders, grimacing slightly.  
  
 

A picture flashes into Aragorn’s mind of Maranwe withstanding blow after blow in their battle with the Orcs. He recalls how far away her sword had flown in the end, and realizes the final strike that disarmed her must have been bone-jarring.  
  
 

Moving into place behind her, Aragorn whispers gently, “Let me help you with that.”

  
 Glancing back over her shoulder with a pleased smile, Maranwe folds her legs underneath her and sits on the soles of her feet, pulling her hair aside.

  
 “Let your hair fall free,” Aragorn entreats her softly. “It is so beautiful.” Obligingly, Maranwe releases her thick locks down her neck. Aragorn moves in closer, settling himself around her, holding her intimately between his thighs.

 He begins by kneading her neck and shoulders, massaging Maranwe’s knotted muscles with just the right mount of pressure. Occasionally, Aragorn closes his eyes and nuzzles his face against her fragrant tresses, enjoying the sweet scent in his nostrils and the sensuous flow across his skin. As his hands move over her body, Maranwe closes her eyes and lets the sensations play out, a deepening blend of relaxation and arousal. As his fingers move tantalizingly down her spine, she leans forward, encouraging him to linger in the small of her back.

  
  When Aragorn’s hands make their way lower still, firmly circling her curves below the waist, Maranwe lifts her bottom slightly and rolls her hips in response to his sensual strokes. Eventually his hands slip around to the front, parting her legs as he pulls her up against him. Lost in his passion, Aragorn caresses her, one hand below, one on her breast above, lips and teeth on her neck, his manhood already stiff against the small of her back. Soft murmurs of pleasure escape Maranwe’s lips, as she raises her arms to gently dig her fingers into his scalp.

  
  Just when she thinks she can stand no more, Aragorn pulls back. With gentle pressure, his hands bend her forward as his kisses mark a trail down her spine. Maranwe feels him raise her hips and part her thighs with his. There is a moment’s pause, while his fingers explore between her legs, finding the wet spot they seek. Then, finally, he is entering her, filling her. Maranwe pushes her bottom back against him, receiving him hungrily. Aragorn’s deep and deliberate thrusts drive them both inexorably towards the raw edge of passion’s peak. Maranwe feels as though she is being claimed in the most intimate of ways. Their mutual release comes quickly, and far from silently.

 Afterwards, they fall to the ground, still trembling. For several minutes, they lie beside each other, Maranwe on her stomach, Aragorn on his back, completely beyond words. Finally Aragorn breaks the silence, choosing a light tone to convey his deep appreciation.  
  
 

“I had no idea the women of Ithilien were so lustful,” he remarks with a twinkle in his eye.  
  
 

 Maranwe raises her eyebrows and smiles at what she will take as a compliment, returning the sentiment in like manner. “I had no idea the Men of the Northern Dunedain were so swift to…….re-engage,” she responds dryly.

  
  Aragorn rolls onto his side, grinning. He places a possessive hand on Maranwe’s lower cheek and growls with conviction, “That has everything to do with present company.”

 

***********************

    

 The moon is well past its apogee, the fire reduced to little more than flickering embers, before their passions wane. Having enjoyed each other for multiple pleasures, appetites finally sated, they lay in one another’s arms, exchanging lazy caresses. Tenderly, Aragorn brushes his hand across Maranwe’s cheek. “There are perhaps three hours before dawn,” he estimates. “You should get some rest. I will stand watch.”  
  
 

Maranwe sighs contentedly. “Wake me in a little while,” she murmurs. “I will take my turn, so that you may get some sleep, also.”

  
 Promising nothing, Aragorn gently closes her eyelids with kisses, and Maranwe settles into slumber. When her breathing is deep and regular, he lithely rises to his feet, careful not to disturb her. Donning his trousers, he goes to check on the horses, returning with another blanket. This he uses to cover Maranwe’s sleeping form, pausing to softly brush aside a wavy lock of hair that has fallen across her face. He stokes the fire once more, and sits down to lose himself in his thoughts.

 

***********************

In the stretched hour before dawn, Maranwe awakes. Her gaze falls on the figure of Aragorn, shirtless still, smoking a pipe before the fire. She experiences a delicious secret smile at the remembrance of the night past, coupled with the stirrings of something more tender. She wonders at the memory of the sensual caresses that were hers from the hands of this man of rough deeds. Never before has she been able to give herself so freely to a man, to trust so completely.  
  
 

Eventually, still naked in the warm predawn of a summer’s day, Maranwe rises to her knees behind him. Aragorn turns his head slightly at the sound of her stirring. She reaches out, running her hands up and down his strong back in fascination, savoring his taut muscles beneath her fingers. “I am awake now,” Maranwe whispers, her lips brushing their way in starts and stops across his broad shoulders. “You could get an hour or two of sleep.”

Aragorn leans back and pulls her onto his lap. As his hands begin to explore her body yet again, he murmurs greedily, “Sleep is not exactly the first thing on my mind right now.”  
  
 

And so, as the horizon gradually pales, dawn’s first rays of light find them lost in the slow, sensual rhythm of their love-making.

 

************************

 

Turning her face way in avoidance, Maranwe stirs the noxious powder into her mug of hot water. She stands beside Freya, her gear nearly packed, ready to ride. Walking past with his own gear, Aragorn catches the awful scent. He glances at Maranwe’s mug, shakes his head, and grunts in disgust. “That is NOT a sweet-smelling cup.”

  
 Maranwe laughs heartily. “I can make you a sweet cup if you wish. This is _Ferula_ …..a generous portion,” she adds pointedly.  
  
 

With a rakish grin, Aragorn responds knowingly, “That is well. Your mother’s teachings stand you in good stead.”

  
 “Indeed,” agrees Maranwe, downing the cup’s contents in two quick gulps.  
  
 

Aragorn swings his rolled blanket onto Bragi’s back and tightens the final strap. “You will ride to Cair Andros immediately,” he guesses at Maranwe’s plans.

  
  Closing the buckle on her saddlebag, Maranwe replies with a sense of duty. “Yes, I must take news of the outcome here, and tokens to the families of those fallen in battle so far from home.”

  
 “Do not use the main roads,” Aragorn advises with grave urgency, taking a step closer to her side. “Though you are quite skilled, you are still only one, against the many Orcs that roam ever more freely along the North – South Road.”

  
Touched by his concern, Maranwe does not protest her ability to take care of herself, but simply nods. “That will add days to my journey, yet I will do as you say.”

  
 For a moment, the two gaze at each other, as if to memorize every detail. Then Aragorn takes Maranwe in his arms one last time. Gently, he brushes her face with his fingertips.  
  
 

 “Stay safe, Lady Ranger.”

  
 “And you also, Dunadan.”

  
 They kiss tenderly, yet with a lingering passion. Lastly, Aragorn holds her close against his chest and places one final kiss atop her head. He then turns, swings himself onto Bragi’s back, and rides towards the tree line. Wheeling the magnificent horse around, he turns back for one last look. Maranwe is astride Freya. Their eyes meet across the short distance. Maranwe catches her breath and places her hand over her heart. Aragorn returns the gesture. Then, with a flourish, they both swing their mounts and ride away in different directions


	8. Chapter Eight

With a crashing roar, the white foam of Mighty Anduin breaks against the towering rocks. Black-winged gulls rise into the mist, their cries snatched away on the wind. A lone figure stands on the promontory, gazing away northward, green eyes lost in a far-away place. A heavy cloak the colour of evergreens protects against the cold October air, but Maranwe seems to neither notice nor care when the bubbling spray flies into her face.   


After a time, another figure approaches on the path. It is a handsome woman of indeterminate age, with the same olive-tinged eyes as her daughter. Although her cares are written in her face, her hair is barely touched by the greying of years, and her skin still retains some suppleness of youth. The decades have been kind to Anorwen, yet it is easy to see they have been kinder still to Anorwen's daughter.   


Hugging Maranwe to her side, Anorwen asks gently, "What is it, my child?" 

  
With a sigh, Maranwe responds helplessly, "I do not know." 

  
"It is not merely the loss of Felagund and the others that troubles you," Anorwen probes with a mother's unerring wisdom. "Something has touched you during your seasons in the North." 

  
Whether by choice or inability, Maranwe does not answer directly. Instead she asks, "Why do I have a Quenya name?" 

  
Breaking away, Anorwen answers evasively, "It was chosen for you by your father." 

  
The bittersweet yearning of a fatherless little girl creeps into Maranwe's voice. "Why can you not tell me more of him? What was his name?" 

  
"His name was …. Erufailaru," her mother responds reluctantly. Then, fondly, "You are like him." 

  
"Erufailaru," Maranwe samples the unfamiliar name on her tongue for the first time. Turning to Anorwen eagerly, she implores, "Tell me more. What was his trade? Where did you live?" 

  
However, her mother grows nervous and will say no more. "It is not safe to speak of these things," she declares with finality. 

  
With a frustrated exhalation, Maranwe challenges, "All my life, you have been protecting me from something you will not name. How shall I protect myself in years to come?" 

  
Anorwen places her hand on Maranwe's arm to calm her. "Your protection lies in innocence. Your destiny lies with the Valar. Patience, my child," she counsels. 

  
And so the conversation ends as it always does for Maranwe, in mystery. Turning back to the path, Anorwen holds out her hand to her daughter. "Walk with me, Maranwe. I am weary of spirit, and wish only to enjoy these days while I may." 

  
It is but one week hence when Maranwe awakens to a day crisp with the bite of autumn, only to find that Anorwen has given up her life during slumber. The beloved Healer is laid to rest in a place of honour within the settlement, for there are many among the company on Cair Andros who owe their health and even their lives to Anorwen. 

 

**************************

For Maranwe, there is now nothing but sadness left on the island. At the urging of her childhood friend, Mablung, she joins the company of Rangers under the command of the cunning Captain of Gondor. Throughout the fall and winter, they make daring raids between the Ephel Duath and the Great River, harrying the Orcs and other servants of the Enemy that would poison the land whilst testing Gondor's defenses. 

  
Nevertheless, as the days of spring approach their full bloom, Maranwe notes that many of the more delicate wildflowers and herbs do not appear on the eastern banks of the Anduin. She knows also that the spice trade coming upriver from Belfalas has been sporadic of late. She senses the Evil of Mordor seeping towards the West.   


She re-doubles her efforts within the company, gaining great respect among her new companions. Yet in her heart, Maranwe feels a disquieting restlessness. One day early in May, a messenger appears from the North. Mithrandir, the Grey Pilgrim, was calling for more patrols, augmenting the watch on the place named the Shire. With little hesitation, Maranwe determines to heed the call.   


That evening, as the raiding party returns to their secret refuge behind Henneth Annun, Maranwe seeks out a private audience with their leader. True to form, she does not mince words. "You heard the call of the messenger today. I would beg your leave to heed that call." 

  
Faramir looks at her kindly, not entirely surprised. Yet he knows that he and his company will miss the restless lady warrior. "You are certain this is your path?" he questions searchingly. 

  
"Yes," Maranwe nods with quiet conviction. "There is nothing left for me here."   


Gesturing to the men gathered about the cavern, Faramir offers, "There is always a place for you among my company." 

  
"You honor me, Captain Faramir," Maranwe demurs softly. "I have no wish to seem ungrateful." 

  
"Yet you would go North," he says, framing his realization as a half-question.   


In an answer that is as honest with herself as it is with her Captain, Maranwe replies, "I cannot explain it. Yet I feel as if there is something unfinished for me there." 

  
Faramir gives her a contemplative look, before consenting gravely, "Then I reluctantly give you my leave."


	9. Chapter Nine

The cold, moist air is ripe with mingled scents, as wispy fingers of fog seep relentlessly into every corner of the village. Both sight and sound are muffled under its blanket on this chill night, the last in June. In and around the small settlement of Bree, the spring and summer have been uncharacteristically cool, with many grey days and grim nights. On a dank evening such as this, the Prancing Pony Inn is an especially welcome sight to chilled and weary travelers.  


Inside the noisy public house, one such newly arrived wanderer shakes the damp from his cloak, and settles down at a small, rough-hewn table against the wall. Across the bustling, smoke-filled room, he catches the eye of the bumbling innkeeper. Soon a tall mug of strong ale and a simple board of homemade bread, cheese, and fruit are set before him. Aragorn inclines his head in thanks, and drops some coin on the table. Scooping up his payment, Barliman departs quickly, without launching into the customary empty-headed banter to which he normally subjects his other patrons.  


Aragorn surveys the crowded common-room, noting a smattering of cheerful Hobbits, friendly Bree-folk, and even a group of dour Dwarves. The Inn will be full tonight, as more folk from the road find their way to the lantern-lit doorway with its equine standard. Wisely, Aragorn has already arranged a room for the night. This humble meal and dry bed may be the last comforts he sees for many days. Along the road at dusk, an Elven messenger on horseback has intercepted him, bringing a cryptic summons from Thranduil, Elf-king of Northern Mirkwood : 'We have need of the Dunadan .' 

  
With belly full, Aragorn leans back against the wall, pipe in hand, planning his return journey to the realm of the Wood Elves. If he takes the shortcut through the Marshes, he can be in the vicinity of Weathertop by mid-week. Unbidden, his lips curve into a smile around the pipestem. The prospect of returning through the wild country surrounding the Weather Hills has triggered the insistent tickle of remembrance. Nearly a year has passed since his encounter there with the provocative Lady Ranger, yet oft has the memory of their hours together invaded his thoughts. He can only hope that no harm has befallen her, for the news out of Gondor is increasingly disturbing.  


Aragorn's musings are intruded upon by a commotion at the bar. Four coarse-looking Men of Bree stand there, well into their cups, demanding another round. With annoyance, Aragorn sees a timid Barliman serve them, rather than demand their decorum or departure. At that moment, a short figure strides in from the cold, wearing a dark green cloak, face hidden within the folds of the hood. With no seats available, the newcomer takes up a place standing at the counter, and signals for a beer. Focusing their bleary interest, the four rough Bree-landers eye the stranger. One leans over and says something to the three behind him. They all guffaw loudly.  


"Say, little man, are you sure you're old enough to be in here?" their apparent leader suggests antagonistically. 

  
The stranger takes a sip of beer, ignoring this remark. The obnoxious fellow glances back at his friends, amidst a fresh round of snickers. From his vantage point across the room, Aragorn narrows his eyes, sensing trouble.  


The boor persists, leaning in close to the newcomer's head, and needling, "Why don't you just hand over that beer and run on home to your mother?" 

 

Still, the stranger ignores the drunken man. This angers the ill-bred fellow. He takes a long draught from his mug, spilling some onto this ample belly. Wiping his mouth with the back of this hand, his eyes grow cruel. He raises his voice and bellows, "Answer me when I talk to you, boy!" 

  
The object of his taunting still does not acknowledge the crude drunkard. The head does not turn, the lips do not speak, but the arms are drawn back beneath the cloak, and the stranger grows very still.  


"The little man must be too good to talk to the likes of you," taunts one of the boor's companions. The three bang their mugs together and laugh openly at their leader. 

  
Finally, spurred by the derision of his friends and his own alcohol-fueled anger, the vulgar tormentor reaches out and roughly yanks the loose-fitting hood from the stranger's head. "ARE YOU DEAF??" 

  
With a start, Aragorn realizes the newcomer is Maranwe. Pocketing his pipe, he swiftly leaves the table and moves obliquely towards the bar. The four men are momentarily taken aback upon finding a woman. Then their ringleader breaks into a leer. "Well now, what have we here? It seems to me that she should be servin' the beer, not drinkin' it, don't you think, gents?" He boldly stares at Maranwe from head to toe, indulging his crude imagination. 

  
Gazing straight ahead, Maranwe speaks quietly but forcefully. "Leave me alone."  
  
The unpleasant brute elbows his nearest friend in the ribs and chuckles lewdly. "She wants me to leave her alone," he mocks aggressively. "But I think she has somethin' she wants to 'give' me." The others snicker as he reaches for Maranwe's neck with his pudgy paw. 

In one fluid motion, Maranwe tosses the cloak off her shoulders. Her dagger flashes out, pinning the man's wrist to the bartop, and her short sword comes to rest against his thick neck. With great intensity, she declares, "I 'give' myself to no man, save one of my choosing." 

  
In the tense silence that follows, Aragorn moves closer to the scene. The man's three companions reach for their knives and move towards Maranwe, closing in. Aragorn chooses that moment to step forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. "I think you would be wise to listen to the lady," he suggests with quiet menace.  
  
Maranwe glances behind her at the sound of his voice. Her pinioned prey attempts to use this moment of distraction to sidestep the blade at his throat and pull his own knife, but Aragorn advances alongside Maranwe, and the man finds himself held at bay by the point of Aragorn's blade. Seeing the look in the Ranger's eye, the other three men think better of engaging a fight, and back away.  
  
"Be gone, all of you!" Aragorn commands derisively, twisting the tip of his sword against skin for emphasis. With that, the troublemaker slumps in defeat, and the four cowards slink away.  
  
Hushed silence erupts suddenly into excited babble, as the Inn's patrons begin what promises to be a lengthy discussion of these events. In the midst of the renewed commotion, the two face each other.  
  
"It seems I owe you my thanks yet again, Dunadan," Maranwe says formally, slipping her dagger and short blade back into place on each hip. Then, without another word, she retrieves her cloak from the floor, and strides quickly past Aragorn and out the side door.  
  
  
********************** 

With senses reeling, Maranwe hurries down the passageway towards her room. Many, many months have passed since she and the handsome Ranger became lovers beside the fire, yet he has been often on her mind. Still, to see him so unexpectedly, she knows not how to react. She knows only that his effect on her is as powerful today as it was then. 

  
Lost amongst her colliding thoughts, Maranwe is not immediately aware of the nearly silent footfalls hurrying up behind her, until suddenly a strong arm clad in black hits the wall in front of her, blocking her progress. A low, seductive voice at the back of her neck says teasingly, "So……….you give yourself to no man, save one of your choosing." 

  
Maranwe closes her eyes momentarily, as a flush of heat ripples across the small of her back. Then she turns her shoulders against the wall, and looks up into the expectant face of Aragorn. Slowly, they smile into each other's eyes. Aragorn brings his other arm up against the passageway and leans in closer. His breath is warm and pungent, trapped in the space between his biceps. In a voice like both silk and sandpaper at once, he murmurs in her ear, "And what is your choosing this night, Lady Ranger?" 

  
Maranwe gazes down at the narrow gap between their bodies. Placing a hand low on Aragorn's hip, she draws him closer still. With a richly suggestive smile, she responds huskily, "I think we both know the answer to that question, Dunadan." 

  
An answering smile curves across Aragorn's mouth, as he cups Maranwe's face in one hand. Standing on tiptoe, she arches her body against him and raises her lips to his. He kisses her then, at first softly, then with growing urgency. All sense of time is lost in the warmth of each other's longing. 

  
As the flood of their intense mutual passion returns in force, Aragorn draws Maranwe by the hand into the doorway across the hall, and levers the handle. He pulls her into the room and closes the door, blindly dropping the bolt, his lips never leaving hers for long. Their weaponsbelts fall to the floor with a clang, and they move to the center of the small parlor. Aragorn stoops to unlace both his and Maranwe's boots, drawing Maranwe's tunic over her head on his way up. The over-size sweater she wears underneath is thin to his touch when he takes her back into his arms. Between kisses, they continue discarding clothing - cloaks, boots, Aragorn's tunic and vest, Maranwe's leggings - all end up on the floorboards. Finally, they stand before one another, Aragorn clad only in his dusty trousers, Maranwe barely covered by her loose-fitting rollneck.  


Stepping out of reach, Maranwe turns her back to him and snakes the sweater up and over her head. She hesitates briefly, the soft garment suspended in her fingers, before dropping it with finality and swiveling to face Aragorn. They are both still for several moments. His smouldering eyes travel slowly across her body, lingering along the way with unabashed ardor, until the desire between them becomes a nearly tangible thing.  
  
Finally, Maranwe returns to his embrace, burying her soft lips in the rough hair of this chest, while her fingers loosen the buttons at his waist. Kneeling, she lowers Aragorn's trousers to the ground. As he steps free of his clothing, Maranwe is overcome by a boldness she has never known. Cupping him in her delicate hands, she explores with her lips and tongue, teasing him mercilessly in the process, occasionally giving voice to her own low moans of rising enjoyment. Ultimately, she closes her eyes and takes him in her mouth. Throwing back his head, Aragorn emits a deep groan of pure pleasure, curling his fingers into the thick waves of hair at the nape of Maranwe's neck.  
  
This is an intimacy that is new to them both, and the excitement quickly threatens to overrun the moment. Before losing control completely, Aragorn pulls her mouth up to his and kisses her with an almost bruising passion. Lifting Maranwe lightly in his arms, he carries her to the simple bed. Lowering himself on top of her, he begins to caress her body hungrily with his mouth and hands, moving ever downward. One by one, he plants provocative kisses on the inside of Maranwe's thighs, while she writhes in ecstasy beneath him. When the moment comes, she opens her legs wider and exhales with a whimper, as he gently begins to taste her.  
  
After a minute or two, Maranwe utters the first words to be spoken by either since entering the room. "Please, now………" she whispers urgently. Without delay, he takes her masterfully, covering her body with his, using one hand to push her knee up and back, driving himself deeply into her. Maranwe's hips rise to meet his, and the two lovers slide into an eager, sensual rhythm. It is as though they have known each other long years, have never been parted. The moment of release comes quickly, explosively, and in that moment, the months and miles melt away, leaving naught but the perfect world of two.  
  
Afterwards, neither makes a move to disengage, both luxuriating in their embrace, their senses thick with the taste and smell and sight of their intertwined bodies. Occasionally they kiss, lazily, teasingly, sustaining the intimacy for as long as possible. Eventually, Maranwe feels Aragorn shift slightly between her thighs, and she realizes that he his growing hard again. Their kisses grow more passionate as his movements gain confidence. With a low murmur of appreciation, Maranwe wraps her strong legs around his waist, her heels pressing into the flesh of his upper thighs. She buries her head under Aragorn's chin, surrendering to the sensations while he rocks their hips against the protesting mattress. After a time, with his state of readiness firmly restored, Aragorn withdraws partially to lean down and kiss Maranwe's up-turned face. She lowers her soles back to the bed, extending her legs to relax the muscles, as his mouth explores hers with sensual license.  
  
Suddenly, in one swift movement, Aragorn rolls them both over, still locked in their intimate embrace. In unspoken understanding, their bodies now glistening with perspiration, they pause to catch their breath. Maranwe rises to a seated position, and they look with mischievous delight into each other's eyes.  
  
Drawing her forefinger lightly from the center of Aragorn's chest to the point where their bodies are joined, Maranwe comments intimately, "Still a vigorous lover, I see."  
  
Aragorn grins widely at her reference to their previous passionate encounter. His deep voice hints at his own memories of that night. "Still a lusty wench, I see," he compliments in return, as he slides his hands firmly along Maranwe's thighs.  
  
They spend several motionless moments relishing the heated tension between them. Soon however, with Maranwe's inaction becoming a torture to him, Aragorn purses his lips and gestures with his chin, bouncing her twice on his hips, gently but pointedly.  
  
Maranwe smiles slowly, enjoying the position in which she finds herself. "Impatient, Dunadan?" she teases him, still not moving.  
  
Aragorn's voice is gruff with pent-up desire, as he replies quietly, "A year is a very long time, Lady Ranger." 

 

Maranwe's features display her uncertainty and surprise. She finds it difficult to believe that the handsome Ranger has taken no other lovers since their last meeting. Raising an eyebrow ever so slightly, she silently asks the question. In his steady grey gaze she sees the answer, and her own desire is deepened. Without another word, she braces her hands on his shoulders and begins a sensual and satisfying rhythm.  


Aragorn's second round stamina ensures a lengthy ride. Maranwe's grinding hips and strong muscles trap him deep inside her. Sometimes she leans back to enjoy the hardness of the angle and the gentle rasp of his palms along her ribcage, on their way to knead her breasts. At other times she drops forward against the downy musculature of his chest in a tangle of hair and hands, lips and teeth. Her movements are unhurried, their lovemaking prolonged, in time bringing them both to an end that is powerfully poignant.

 


	10. CHAPTER TEN

In the aftermath of their fervor, the two lovers lay on their backs, breathing heavily, utterly spent. For long minutes neither speaks, no words being necessary or sufficient. After a time, Maranwe turns her head to look about the room. In addition to the bed on its low frame, the only other pieces of furniture are a straight-back chair in one corner and a short cabinet in the other. Atop the cabinet stands a large water pitcher, along with a basin, a drinking glass, and a small bowl of fruit. In the wall opposite the door, a wide multi-paned window reveals little outside other than the diffuse yellow light of a mounted lantern swallowed up in the fog. A curved oil lamp rests on the windowsill, already lit, bringing to mind an interesting question. 

  
Aiming a speculative grin at the ceiling, Maranwe queries nonchalantly, "Is this your room?" 

  
Blinking at the notion that it might not be, Aragorn glances along the path from the door to the bed, now littered with their garments and gear. "Yes, it is," he assures her, giving a short laugh.   
  
"Mine is two doors down," volunteers Maranwe, with a sense of casual irony. 

  
"Mine was closer," Aragorn points out, grinning at the recollection of their seductive scene in the hallway. He rolls up on one elbow and begins idly toying with Maranwe's breast. In velvety tones of mock innocence, he asks, "Were you planning on returning to your room tonight?" 

  
Maranwe experiences a sharp intake of breath, as his leisurely fondling permeates her satiated senses. "Not anymore," she promises softly. Sitting up, she plants a quick kiss on Aragorn's nose and crosses the room to the sideboard. There she pours herself a glass and drinks deeply, then splashes water into the shallow basin. With cupped palm, she rinses the back of her neck and her shoulders, allowing the excess liquid to run forward and trickle down her still-hot skin. 

  
Aragorn watches her avidly, burning every detail into his memory. In tender amazement, he shakes his head and wonders softly, "How is it that you are here?" 

  
"Mithrandir," is Maranwe's one-word answer, as she refills the drinking vessel and brings it to him.   


"Gandalf?" Aragorn repeats in surprise, taking the proffered glass and gratefully slaking his own thirst. Maranwe waits for him to finish.   


"Is that his name in the northern realms?" she guesses. "I have not met him." She returns the empty glass to the cabinet and helps herself to an apple. "The wizard sent word to Gondor and Ithilien of the need for increased guards around the Shire." Leaning against the edge of the cupboard, she picks up another of the bright red fruits. Raising an eyebrow, and her arm as if to throw, she continues, "The rider instructed me to report to the outpost at Sarn Ford." Aragorn declines her pantomimed offer with a shake of his head. "That is my destination," she concludes, dropping the second apple back in the bowl. 

  
Aragorn nods, mulling over the possibilities. "Present yourself to Captain Halbarad Dunadan upon your arrival," he directs her finally. "He is in charge of the company - a good man and a good friend. He will treat you with respect." 

  
Aragorn's familiarity with the activities of the Shire patrol does not go unnoticed. Maranwe compresses her lips, holding back the hopeful idea that springs to mind. Instead, she asks lightly, "And where do your responsibilities take you these days?"   


There is a pause, during which unspoken hope dies. Aragorn sighs regretfully. "I am leaving in the morning on a long journey to the East," he relates reluctantly. A shadow crosses his face, and an air of quiet gravity overshadows his next words. "War is coming, Maranwe. I know not when, or if, I shall return." They smile sadly at each other, realizing that circumstances will part them yet again.   


After a moment, with seemingly nothing further to be said, Maranwe turns away and sinks her teeth into the luscious red fruit in her hand. Between bites, she patters around the room, gathering up their scattered garments.   


However, something is nagging at the corner of Aragorn's consciousness. A traveller coming North from the Gap of Rohan, even a wanderer picking her own path through the wilderness, would reach Sarn Ford before Bree. He looks at Maranwe curiously. "By what route did you return North?"   
  


"I came up the Great River and over the High Pass," she answers matter-of-factly, while draping their clothing over the wooden chair. "It is a wild and beautiful trip in the summer," she adds with a smile. 

  
Aragorn raises his eyebrows in surprise. "That _is_ the road less traveled," he observes, caught between admiration for her adventurous spirit and annoyance at the risks she took. 

  
Maranwe tips her head in agreement. "It brought me closest to the cairn of my lost companions," she explains quietly. "Thankfully, it is undisturbed." Stepping to the window, she momentarily pops open a pane and tosses out the apple core. 

  
Aragorn is respectfully silent, eventually rising to draw the curtains, while Maranwe walks to the doorway and stoops to retrieve their dropped weapons. Not wishing to dwell on such a somber note, she continues conversationally, "The people of Cair Andros are a river people. We still have knowledge of the old pathways alongside Anduin." 

  
Aragorn perks up his ears, the trailsman ever eager for discovery of new paths and hidden byways. "Is it not a rough passage beyond the Nindalf?" he prompts, thinking of the Falls of Rauros and the Rapids of Sarn Gebir, regions of the River he does not know well. 

  
Maranwe pauses as she carefully lays Aragorn's sword and dagger within reach beside the bed. "The ancient portage-way on the western side is still passable," she reveals helpfully. "Until a few years ago, light boats journeyed out of the Wilderland as far as Osgiliath for trading." 

  
The well-travelled Ranger marks her words for future reference. "And how passed you the Woods of Lorien?" he wonders aloud, as Maranwe crosses the floor for her own weapons. "Few have the courage to enter that realm willingly." 

  
Maranwe shrugs unconcernedly. "I slipped past its borders where the River meets the Woods. I felt no ill favor. I was not challenged." 

  
Aragorn gazes out the gap in the homespun curtain reflectively. He finds her answer thought provoking, for he knows what superstitions and distrust lie between the Men of these latter days and the Elves of the Golden Wood. One thing he knows for certain: her passage will not have gone unmarked by the eyes in Lothlorien. 

  
Plucking the lamp from the windowsill, Aragorn moves it to a spot on the floor near the headboard. By the time Maranwe rises and pivots with her gear, he has turned down the bedding and lies waiting. In the warm glow of the lamplight, his eyes beckon her. As she draws near, Aragorn lifts the down coverlet in invitation. After depositing her weapons close at hand, Maranwe takes a long pause, enjoying the unhurried sight of his body. It is as she has remembered and dreamed of these many months - lean, muscular, and strikingly masculine. Without a word, Aragorn takes her hand and pulls her down beside him. As Maranwe settles into the curve of his arm, his lips meet hers for a lingering kiss.   


"All this time," he whispers, "I imagined you to be hundreds of miles away." Maranwe smiles, pleased by the tacit admission that she has been in his thoughts. Lightly Aragorn strokes her upper arm, fingers pausing on a small scar that is new to him. "And where have you found your battles this past year, my Lady Ranger?" he questions softly, the practicality of the words not quite masking the tenderness he feels.   


Maranwe rolls onto her back, the uncertainty of the preceding months showing in her face. "My mother was laid to rest late last October," she imparts with quiet sadness, and Aragorn's lips brush her forehead in unspoken solace. "After her death, I served under the command of the Steward's son, Lord Faramir. He is a bold leader, wise in the battle arts, and well loved by the people of Gondor. Our company sought to disrupt the Enemy's activities in Ithilien, and we were rarely idle."   


  
Unbeknownst to Maranwe, Aragorn has reason to be quite familiar with the House of Hurin and its descendants. "I have heard of the deeds of Lord Faramir," he admits. "Courage and valor yet flow in the Line of the Ruling Stewards." 

  
Maranwe's thoughts turn to her last audience with the Captain of Gondor. "I found him to be a man of both courage and kindness," she interjects with fond familiarity.   


Triggered by her tone, a mental image arises in Aragorn's mind, bringing with it an unwelcome pang. He looks at Maranwe's profile closely. Although he has no right, he cannot help fishing for a sign to belie this nagging new idea. With studied indifference, he dangles his next remark into the conversation, watching carefully for Maranwe's reaction. "Tell me, is the Lord Faramir yet unmarried?" 

  
Maranwe suppresses a smile. As usual, she discerns the true meaning behind his veiled questioning. "I believe you are correct, although I am not certain." She pauses for emphasis. "The matter did not………come up…….between us," she offers dryly. Now it is Aragorn's turn to hide a smile. Thinking back to his original comment, Maranwe points out, albeit unnecessarily, "The line of succession of course passes through his elder brother, Boromir." 

  
"Also unmarried," observes Aragorn, apropos of nothing.   


Maranwe's laughter escapes in a rich chuckle. Turning to face him, she teases, "You seem to be unusually interested in the marriage plans of the Sons of the Steward. Do you foresee an impending lack of heirs to the rule of Gondor?" she jokes innocently. Aragorn's only response is a non-committal grunt. Maranwe pokes him playfully in the ribs and continues, "Because I fail to see what you can do about it." 

  
Aragorn turns away so she cannot see his look of mirth. Wetting his thumb and forefinger on his tongue, he leans over to extinguish the lamp, remarking cryptically, "You have no idea." 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's pedantic notes: True Tolkien scholars have postulated as to Aragorn's whereabouts between May 1st, 3018, when he is known to have met with Gandalf, and the end of September, when he re-appears to take the Hobbits under his wing. It has been suggested that he may have been journeying along the East-West Road, and eventually went to the aid of Thranduil, when Mirkwood was attacked by Orcs in late June.
> 
> Also, a little point that always nagged at me from the books was this--When Aragorn is floating down the River Anduin with the Fellowship, he declares himself somewhat outside his element, saying he has never travelled this section of the waterway, and knows little about it. Three pages later, he suddenly comes up with the unerring knowledge of an ancient portage way alongside Rauros. Here I provided my own explanation as to how he knew that.


	11. CHAPTER ELEVEN

Midnight is lately past, the mist finally retreating, when a single pale moonbeam filters its way between the curtains and falls silently across the bed. Its silver light finds a sleeping form breathing gently in repose, dark hair spread across the white pillow, a slight smile on the bearded face. Sighing contentedly in his sleep, Aragorn rolls over and reaches for the woman in his dreams, but awakens instantly upon finding his arms empty. Blinking, he drops onto his back and glances out the window, noting the change in the weather. Crossing his hands behind his head, he sighs again and waits patiently for Maranwe's return. 

He does not have long to wait, before his ears catch the sound of the wooden door creaking softly on its hinges. Aragorn's eyes follow her, as Maranwe eases through the slight opening and tiptoes barefoot across the room, stopping for a sip of water. Although clad in her sweater and leggings, she hugs her arms against the residual dampness in the air.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Aragorn initially remains silent, not wishing to startle her. The rustle of the bedclothes lets Maranwe know that he is awake, and she turns from the sideboard.

"I am sorry. I woke you," she apologizes regretfully. 

Aragorn's voice is low and seductive, his grey eyes almost luminous in the moonlight. "I missed you beside me," he admonishes softly. "Come back to bed." 

"Gladly," Maranwe responds, with a shiver that is not entirely due to the temperature. "Although the fog has lifted, it is still quite chilly." 

Slipping briskly out of her clothes, Maranwe slides her body, taut with cold, under the covers, and lets Aragorn's warm lips and gliding hands heat her skin. Turning up into his embrace, she closes her eyes in sensual surrender, as always, deeply responsive to his touch.

Languidly, as if in a dream, Maranwe whispers her innermost thoughts into the stillness of the night. "How is it that the merest touch of your hands, or your lips, makes me weak?" she murmurs in unguarded wonder.

Aragorn's face softens in tenderness. He understands what an intimate admission this is, coming from one who strives for such strength. His fingertips brush across her cheek as he looks long and reassuringly into her eyes. The kiss he gives is deep with unspoken promise and shared understanding. His warm breath tickles her ear, as he whispers his own heartfelt truth. "By the Valar, never have I known such desire as I do with you." 

Touching his face, Maranwe looks up at him, her eyes growing deep with emotion. There is a breathless moment between them. Then, as if to seal their words, Aragorn pulls Maranwe's leg across his hip, drawing their bodies against each other. Their kisses increase in passion, as each feels the other's heightening response. After a time, Aragorn pulls away, and Maranwe opens her eyes to find him gazing at her with particular intensity.

Wordlessly, he twirls his finger in a lazy pirouette above her head. Maranwe smiles slowly in understanding. A contented murmur leaves her lips, as she rolls over, half on her side, half on her stomach, drawing her outer knee up. She can sense Aragorn's slow and salacious perusal by moonlight, and she exhales with a little tremor of anticipation. Then he is smoothing her thick hair aside, softly nuzzling her ear and neck, his fingers tracing the curve of her body from shoulder to knee and halfway back. Maranwe moans in helpless abandon, instinctively rolling her soft bottom beneath his rough palm, as his fingertips brush her intimately. With an answering groan, Aragorn ends their waiting. Molding himself against her back, he covers her with his strong body, penetrating her senses with the full measure of his passion. With a sharp intake of breath, she tilts her hips up in response, accommodating him eagerly. In moments, having never been able to keep her silence during their lovemaking, Maranwe yields to his rhythm with her voice as well as her body. Her drawn-out cries of pleasure fuel Aragorn's own excitement, eliciting deep-throated groans of masculine satisfaction. The culmination of their coupling drains them both, and they drift into slumber still spooned in the curve of their embrace.

****************************** 

With a shrill, triumphant cry, Barliman's rooster greets the first pale rays of dawn. As befits the master of the yard, he struts possessively to and fro before his prize, stopping occasionally to peck greedily at the juicy apple core he has found. Cocking one beady eye at the window above, he ruffles his iridescent feathers and releases another crow of delight into the still morning air. 

On the other side of the windowpane, Maranwe is sleeping deeply, undisturbed by the bird's morning call. Her dreams are sweet indeed, warming her in Aragorn's absence, for he has quietly left her side in the pre-dawn light to check on Bragi and Freya.

Presently the doorhandle tilts, and ever-so-slowly the portal opens. Shirtless and shoeless, Aragorn slips noiselessly into the room, both his and Maranwe's saddlebags slung over his shoulder. After depositing their satchels carefully in the corner, he steals without a sound to the foot of the bed.

The vision before him is one that will sustain him through many long days ahead. Maranwe is as he left her, in the same position in which she fell asleep, partially on her stomach with one leg drawn up. A twist of the bedding conceals her hips and shoulders, but her legs are free. Her face, resting softly on its pillow, is innocent and untroubled in repose. Her delicate features, so lovely to him, and so serenely expressive while waking, are relaxed in gentle slumber. As Aragorn casts his mind back over the hours they have spent together, here in Bree and in the Weather Hills, he begins to realize just how difficult it will be for him to take his leave this day. He will miss her quiet intelligence, her wry sense of humor, her high integrity, her inherent strength, her unaffected sensuality. Drawing a deep breath, Aragorn admits to himself that which he does not understand: the effect this woman has on him is beyond anything he has ever known. 

As though secretly touched by his innermost thoughts, Maranwe smiles and murmurs softly in her dreams. She raises her arm, hugging the pillow against her cheek, and the coverlet slides off her shoulders. As Aragorn continues to gaze upon her, his contemplation gradually takes on a more physical focus. His eyes caress her while she sleeps, in anticipation of the moment when he will wake her. Soon, Maranwe's lips part, and she breathes the small and intimate sigh he knows so well. As his own breathing quickens, Aragorn draws the outside of his thumb across his groin, adjusting himself with a wholly masculine lack of self-consciousness. Intent on her reclining form, he reaches out, stroking the well-defined curve of her calf with his fingertips.

The sudden touch on her leg sparks the Lady Ranger's senses out of their pleasant drowsing. In her half-waking state instinct takes over. Throwing back the covers, Maranwe rolls quickly onto her back, lashing out with a well-aimed kick. Effortlessly, Aragorn grabs her ankles, intercepting the blow inches from his groin. In the second that full consciousness returns, Maranwe sits up on her elbows to find herself with her legs pinned apart at the heels, Aragorn standing between them with a grin dancing in his eyes.

Pursing his lips as if savoring the words before they leave his mouth, he suggests dryly, "We might _**both**_ be sorry if you did that, Lady Ranger." There is a long beat, while his gaze travels indolently up her body to her face.

Maranwe makes the same leisurely study of Aragorn's masterful physique, noting the visible swelling below his waist. "Doubtless very, VERY sorry," she murmurs with feeling, her voice husky.

They smile slowly at each other, breaking into delighted laughter, as Aragorn lowers himself into Maranwe's embrace. Their joy in each other cocoons them, holding at bay for a time the troubled world and the Evil therein that looms beyond those four walls. Gradually their merriment subsides, as Aragorn gazes into Maranwe's eyes, caressing her face with the back of his fingers, while she cups his strong chin in her palms, softly outlining his mouth with her thumb. He kisses her once, a chaste and gentle meeting of the lips, and Maranwe's sensitive skin feels the slight indentation of the scar his moustache does not completely hide.

"Ah, Maranwe," Aragorn whispers in a voice thick with emotion. "You excite my senses far beyond any other woman. Would that my path were not so dark, nor these times so fraught with danger, I would have you by my side." He lays his palm tenderly alongside her face. "When the day comes and Evil is defeated, if we both survive, I will look for you in Ithilien." 

Maranwe closes her eyes. She has no illusions about the permanence of such declarations in the midst of strife. Yet she also knows that when she is in this man's arms, she feels as though she has finally found the place where she was always meant to be. After a moment her eyelids open, and she loses herself once again in Aragorn's gaze. "When that day comes," she whispers almost inaudibly, "I will be waiting." 

His lips claims hers then with vehemence. Content with only kisses, the two lovers spend long minutes teasing and tasting each other. They are in no hurry, perhaps both willing time to stand still.

Eventually, Maranwe brings her arms in between them, caressing the broad expanse of Aragorn's chest and shoulders, fingertips playing through the dark hair that titillates her skin when his body presses against hers. Aragorn's palm slides up her ribcage to capture first one breast, then the other. When he raises his body slightly to facilitate his caressing, Maranwe moves her hand down and slips it inside his waistband. 

"Would you not be more comfortable without these pants?" she suggest in a low voice, massaging him firmly. 

"Do not rush me," Aragorn chides, moving down and out of her reach. As he proceeds to devote his undivided attention to her breasts, Maranwe feels near to fainting from the mixture of pleasure and desire that courses through her body.

Finally, Aragorn breaks away, his lips meeting hers once before he rolls sideways. Tossing both pillows against the headboard, he sits up and leans back, making himself comfortable. Maranwe straddles him, unbuttoning his trousers while Aragorn nips her skin lightly between his fingertips. She leans in for more kisses to her breasts, as Aragorn slips his pants off his hips. Backing up, Maranwe finishes the task for him, tossing the garment off the end of the bed. Aragorn leans forward and pulls her slowly back into his arms.

Now, with the knowledge in their hearts that these are the last hours they will likely spend together for a long time, their lovemaking takes on a profound tenderness. As though unwilling to allow the other out of sight, their gazes lock in eloquent union, interrupted only by the occasional soft kiss. With an exquisite lack of haste, Maranwe lowers herself onto him, enveloping him, submerging him in her warmth. Their bodies move languidly as one, while their eyes communicate sentiments their voices have not spoken. Thus, in the end, they give to each other a very personal gift, as they share open-eyed the depth and height of passion's shuddering peak.


	12. Chapter Twelve

With mouth watering, Maranwe wraps her lips greedily around the plump pastry, sinking her teeth into the warm meat and potato pie. She is famished, her only dinner the previous evening having been an apple. And Valinor knows, she thinks with an inward grin, the night's -- and morning's -- activities have left her with an appetite.   


Such hearty morning fare is not the customary breakfast for overnight guests at The Pony. However, while Maranwe dressed, the thoughtful Aragorn disappeared to work his charms on Barliman's portly wife, returning with leftovers from the family meal, and a pot of hot water for tea. Now he has gone on ahead to the stable to wait for her, thereby postponing their final farewell until the last possible moment.   


Gazing out the window, Maranwe reflects on the tentative promises they both made as the sun came up, and realizes with a sense of vertigo how much she wishes they could come true. She can no longer pretend that the attraction, for her at least, is purely physical. She finds herself fascinated by the complete mosaic of the man - his compelling intelligence; his strength coupled with sensitivity; his confidence without arrogance; his overriding integrity; his measured intensity; his wit and humor, accompanied by his all-too-rare smile. In light of Aragorn's own intimations regarding his future, she secretly fears for him. But such is the life of all Rangers; she cannot voice her fears, only suppress them. Closing her eyes, she whispers fervently, "May the Grace of the Valar protect you." 

  
After a moment, Maranwe leaves the window and crosses to the cabinet. From the scuffed saddlebag that rests there, she removes her metal mug and her multi-pocketed herbal kit. Into the mug, she drops first a pinch of flavorful tea leaves from her stores, followed by a full measure of steaming water. Then she locates and uncorks a slender, dark glass phial, releasing an odor that is unpleasant, to say the least. Taking a tin measuring spoon from another slot, she carefully levels one spoonful of the noxious powdered extract into her drink and stirs. Halfway to her lips she halts the mug, realistically considering her time with the handsome Ranger, then adds a little more of the powder, before downing the entire mixture in one grimacing gulp. The taste is vile, even with the tea, and the concoction will make her uncomfortable for the next day or two. But at least she will bear no child as the result of their pairing.   


In preparation for leaving, Maranwe now encloses her personal items in her satchel and tugs on her boots, lacing them snugly. Because this day promises to be warmer than its predecessor, she has elected not to wear her sweater, instead stuffing it atop her other gear before cinching the bag closed. Lastly, she girds herself, sliding her weapons into their respective sheaths. As she does so, she notices that the small leather pouch dangling from her braided belt has worked its way partially loose and now hangs precariously. 

  
Since the day when Freya ran off during the battle in the Weather Hills, taking with her all the gear that was stowed aboard her, a wiser Maranwe now carries her most important and enigmatic possession at her waist. Removing a small black purse from its place of concealment within the leather sack, Maranwe patiently re-threads the laces of the carrying pouch between the plaiting of her belt. Once finished, she hesitates before replacing her hidden treasure, loosening the ties around the throat of the velvet bag, tipping the contents into her palm. 

  
She marvels once again at the exquisite detail of the necklace, at its shimmering silver presence, at the way it flows like liquid through her fingers, incredibly lightweight yet perfectly balanced. She thinks back to the first time she held it in her hand.   


It was her 20th birthday, the eve of the cold December day when she left Anorwen's house to begin her training among the remnants of the Dunedain in the Southern Kingdom. Her mother's words return to her, spoken those many years ago. 

  
"I will speak of this but once, my daughter. A great destiny awaits you. Your father and I knew this from the moment you were born. He fashioned this symbol for you even then. Keep it with you always, for it will be the key to unlocking that destiny." 

  
Maranwe remembers her own confused questioning. "What do you mean? What sort of destiny? How can I prepare?" 

  
Maranwe will likewise never forget Anorwen's haunted eyes as she continued, the burden of her own knowledge and the strain of protecting her beloved daughter from the Shadow in the East even then taking their toll. "Your destiny is not mine to reveal, my child. When the time is full, it will find you. There is no preparing, only the need for courage and awareness when that day comes." Closing Maranwe's fingers over the pendant, Anorwen entreated in an urgent whisper, "Keep this token hidden. Do not wear it or show it to anyone. Your father died protecting us both from the Evil in this world that would threaten you and your future. You are safest with your heritage held in secret. Trust in the Valar, and in your own heart, to guide you."   


As the scene from her own past comes to a close, Maranwe folds her fingers over the shining chain and its token. A strange motivation stirs within her, a compulsion contrary to her mother's wisdom. Taking a deep breath, she reaches underneath the cascade of her hair and fastens the gleaming necklace around her. It falls like silk into the hollow of her throat. 

  
As Maranwe traces her fingers back along the slope of her neck, her right hand brushes the tender skin of a delicate love bite that Aragorn has left there. With a small smile and an audible sigh of remembrance, she allows her fingers to linger. Then, slinging her cloak over her forearm and grabbing her saddlebag, she pauses for one last glance around the room, before brusquely throwing the bolt and stepping out into the hallway.

********************* 

 

Rings of fragrant smoke rise from the bowl of the long-stemmed pipe, forming fanciful shapes in the air, before being sifted apart on the capricious morning breeze. The old man in the trailing grey robes leans patiently against the wall of Bragi's stall, puffing contemplatively. Occasionally, he is forced to clutch the brim of his tall, pointed hat, as the open-ended design of the stable effectively funnels the stronger gusts of wind through the building.   


Soon a familiar figure approaches from the far end of the barn, stopping first at the stall next door to speak soothingly to the pinto filly housed there. Then Aragorn rounds the corner of the dividing wall, starting mildly upon seeing an additional occupant in the space with his horse.   


"You do have a knack for showing up in the most unexpected places, Gandalf." He shakes his head, smiling. "Have you been here long?" he asks with polite curiosity, thinking the wizard is newly come to the Inn.   


"Since yesterday evening," Gandalf replies in his deep voice. Aragorn glances up quickly from rolling and stowing his cloak. "I arrived in time to witness the scene at Butterbur's," the wizard confirms, his eyes twinkling. "The lady has some skill." 

  
Aragorn allows himself a secret smile. "That she has," he agrees readily, enjoying a different, more private memory. He turns away, ostensibly to secure his saddlebags. However, the wizard is neither fooled nor finished. 

  
"It would appear that the two of you have met before," Gandalf continues cheerfully, as he knocks out his pipe and secretes is somewhere within the deep folds of his robe.   


Withdrawing a tortoiseshell currycomb from his bag, Aragorn begins applying it to Bragi's coat in long, firm strokes, while he elaborates carefully. "I came to her aid when she and her company were ambushed by Orcs in the Weather Hills." Gandalf raises an eyebrow, sensing more to the story. "Alas, I did not arrive in time to turn the tide but slightly. She was the only one spared." Aragorn glances at his old mentor. The wizard's bushy brows head further in the direction of his hairline. "I stayed to assist her in honouring her dead," Aragorn finishes succinctly.   


"How tender," comments Gandalf dryly, after a moment's pause. "And did you 'assist' one another last evening also?" 

  
Pausing in mid-stroke, Aragorn remarks with some irritation, "I fail to see what business that is of yours." 

  
Gandalf notes with disquiet his friend's evasiveness, but as usual, the wily old wizard holds the final card. "Barliman's walls are thin," he observes with wry humor. "I had the dubious fortune of being given the room beside yours." 

  
Resuming his task of grooming, Aragorn shrugs his eyebrows somewhat sheepishly, but maintains his high-minded indignation. "I hardly need a lecture from you regarding my private affairs, Gandalf," he retorts in a challenging tone.   


The wizard's eyes flash. "Aragorn," he admonishes sternly. "Need I remind you that you are Isildur's Heir, and as such, very few of your affairs affect you alone, nor can they remain private?" Aragorn does not respond, but his carefully controlled actions as he packs away the brush hint at his rising anger and frustration.   


"I must caution you to take care where you sow the seeds of Elendil," Gandalf chides in a gentler tone. "You know the telling as well as I do:"

  
'And a Rose shall grow in Ithilien

At the feet of the White Tree of Gondor

Out of the House of Celeborn

Through a mother's lineage of old.'

'In the day when the Heir of Isildur returns

And takes to himself the Rose of Ithilien,

The two sundered lines shall be reunited

And thus shall the Days of the King come to pass.' 

Gandalf pauses to let the words sink in, then finishes, "You must save your heart for the one foretold." 

  
Aragorn turns away and sits down roughly on a nearby stool, staring at his clenched hands. After a moment, he queries bitterly, "How do you know she is not the one? She was raised in those fair lands, on the Isle that bridges the River, and bears a Quenya name." 

  
The old wizard's wisdom asserts itself. "Many are the maidens born in Ithilien, and some are still given Quenya names," he points out reasonably. "It is said among the Elves that she wears a token of some kind, made for her at the time of her birth by her father. I assume you would have seen such a token by now, were your lady friend to have one," he concludes, making his point with inescapable pragmatism. 

  
Aragorn says nothing, but the muscles of his jaw tighten in unconscious rejection of Gandalf's logic. A few minutes of silence pass between them, during which time Maranwe enters from the far side of the barn. Thinking from the hush in the air that Aragorn has stepped out, she slips quietly into Freya's stall. Then she hears the voice of the man she knows as Strider.   


"It will be even as you wish, Gandalf, for she and I seem always to be heading in opposite directions. I travel this day in answer to a summons for aid from Thranduil, though I know not what his need may be." 

  
With confusion and a growing sense of hurt, Maranwe pauses to listen. Next, she hears a deep, mellifluous voice she does not recognize. 

  
"It is for the best, Aragorn. Forget this Lady Ranger," Gandalf counsels gently but firmly. "You have a great destiny to fulfill, and the Fates have already chosen your helpmate." A note of urgency creeps into the wizard's voice. "You cannot turn your back now on your calling. The throne of Gondor needs you. The Men of the West need you." 

  
There is a long and pregnant pause, during which three individuals battle very different emotions. Finally, Aragorn declares with a quiet sense of duty, "I will not turn my back on the Men of Gondor." Behind the wall that separates them, Maranwe closes her eyes in pain at his words, as though pierced by a blade. 

  
Gandalf breathes a sigh of relief. "Make haste now for Mirkwood," he advises, his voice laced with foreboding. "Something is afoot, I am sure of it. Radagast informs me that the Nine are again abroad, seeking news of the Shire." This piece of information momentarily breaks through Aragorn's steely melancholy. He glances with apprehension at the wizard.   


"Your kinsfolk will guard the Shire in your absence," Gandalf assures him. "Yet remember, Frodo means to leave for Rivendell after Bilbo's Birthday Party, although I shall attempt to send word for him to leave sooner. Watch for him on the East-West Road in the latter days of summer. He will doubtless need your help." Aragorn nods gravely. 

  
Gathering his robes about him, Gandalf steps closer to his friend. "I travel to Isengard, to consult with Saruman, greatest of my order." Clutching Aragorn's shoulder dramatically, the wizard delivers forceful words in parting. "I fear the Forces of the Dark Lord are moving against us. Mark my words, Aragorn, and stay your course. Forget her." 

  
Aragorn drops his head into his hands, agonized but silent, as Gandalf wheels around and strides quickly away, heading for the same entrance that Maranwe has just used. As he passes the next stall, he turns and sees Maranwe standing mutely on the other side of Freya. Their eyes meet over the pony's back. A bitter glance passes wordlessly between them. Realizing that she has overheard at least some of his conversation with Aragorn, Gandalf's countenance softens a little in pity. Maranwe drops her gaze. Gandalf walks out. 

  
Laying her head against Freya's flank, Maranwe strives to gather her strength, but the sadness welling up inside her is powerful. Blindly she attaches her saddlebag and throws on her cloak, tying it carelessly. With a shaking breath, she resolutely mounts up to take her leave.   


As Freya steps out past the wall separating the two stalls, Aragorn raises his head. By the anguished look on Maranwe's face, he too knows that she has overheard Gandalf's admonishments. Anguish is evident in his face also, as much for hurting her, as for his own pain. He stands and takes a step toward her, speaking her name, then stops. A tear rolls down Maranwe's cheek. She shakes her head once, as if to acknowledge the necessity of their parting for good. Tightening her reins, she prepares to depart. 

  
Suddenly a strong wind blows through the barn, a fresh crosscurrent from a new direction. Its force dries Maranwe's tears and plucks the cloak from her shoulders, sending it sliding down her back to rest across Freya's loins. For a split second, the morning sun catches a flash of silver at Maranwe's throat. Then she turns her mount and is swiftly gone.

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's annoying notes: In the canon, Gandalf does spend the night of Midyear's Day in Bree, after encountering Radagast on the road. There Gandalf pens a letter to Frodo, which Butterbur fails to deliver, urging Frodo to set out sooner for Rivendell, and introducing Strider's bona fides as someone they can trust. Without this letter, the Sam of the books might never have accepted the mysterious Ranger.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

And so the months go by, The Great Years and The War of the Ring, the tale of which is told in detail in pages greater than these.   


Thranduil's summons to Aragorn has arrived too late. Sensing the Forces of Evil gathering at his borders, the Elven King had sent for the Dunadan. Yet even 'ere his messenger had long left the leafy reaches of Mirkwood behind, Orcs had attacked from the North, creating a diversion and aiding the escape of Gollum. Though sought by Elves and Ranger, the creature's trail is eventually lost, setting the stage for his later role in the pivotal events of the Ring War. 

  
In late September, Aragorn is back in Bree, taking under his charge four Hobbits with a fateful and dangerous journey ahead of them. Through many perils, he escorts them finally to Rivendell. There, representatives of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth hold Council, appointing a Company of Nine to attempt the destruction of the One Ring.   


The week following the New Year brings the Company face to face with the underground horrors of Moria. There the Fellowship is sorely tested. When the group emerges from the darkness, they are one less, and Aragorn must become their guide and leader. After a brief respite in the Golden Wood, the Company takes to the River in Elvenboats, negotiating the Rapids and Falls via the long-forgotten portage-way, which Aragorn inexplicably has reason to believe is still useable.   


Enemies are all around them, without and within. It is here on the banks of Anduin that the Fellowship is broken. The Ring-bearer and his dearest companion turn East into the Land of Shadow. Aragorn and those that remain of the Company mount an epic pursuit to rescue two of their captured companions, a journey that takes them deep into the plains of Rohan. For a time, a portion of the company is briefly reunited, before the vagaries of war divide the group once again.   


  
The early days of March see the beginning of Sauron's final assault. Through his puppet ally in the Tower of Isengard, he sends a mighty force to destroy the people of Rohan at Helm's Deep. Nevertheless, against frightful odds, Aragorn and King Theoden lead the Rohirrim to victory. In the aftermath, Aragorn, Gandalf, and the King ride out to confront the fallen wizard, Saruman. It is near the Fords of Isen on their return that Halbarad and a company of Dunedain from the North arrive to aid their kinsman. 

  
Later that day, the two old friends sit wrapped in the grey of their cloaks beside a small fire, all but concealed in the thin light. The King's Company has paused in their march to camp within the ruins of the Hornburg. 

  
Puffing on his pipe, Aragorn looks around him at the flames of other campfires flickering against the broken walls. Shaking his head, he observes with disappointment, "Only thirty could you muster, of the once-mighty Dunedain of Arnor. Sad indeed is our decline." 

  
Halbarad cups his hands around the warm mug he cradles. "They are good men, Aragorn," he states quietly. "They will follow you to the end." 

  
A moment of doubt crosses Aragorn's weary face. "Would that I could offer them some better hope of victory," he murmurs bitterly. 

  
"There is hope enough, in the name of the Heir of Isildur," responds Halbarad, in a vow of solemn encouragement. "The men are content." Aragorn nods, grateful for the confidence and companionship of his kinsman. 

  
After a pause, Halbarad continues, faithfully accounting for all the personnel that traveled with him. "There was one other that rode South with us. She broke away 'ere we overtook your company." Aragorn's head snaps up.   


"Maranwe," Halbarad confirms. "Like many, she returns to defend her homeland."   
  
"The Isle of Cair Andros," Aragorn murmurs, heart both sick and glad at the same time. Glad to have word of her whereabouts, yet sick with the knowledge that the island's strategic importance will surely draw a deadly strike from Sauron.   
  
Halbarad looks long at his Chieftain, trying to decipher the emotions behind the strong features. "When she joined our company, she indicated to me the two of you had met. However, she named you Strider," he relates slowly.   
  
Aragorn's eyes close at the painful memory of that morning in the stable. However much Maranwe heard that day, she has obviously kept it to herself.   
  
His oldest friend asks with quiet curiosity, "You did not reveal your lineage to her?"   
  
Swallowing the bitter taste of lost opportunity, Aragorn replies, "No……although she may have guessed." After a pause, "Did you?"   
  
Respectfully, Halbarad shakes his head. "That is not my place."   
  
Gazing pensively into the fire, Aragorn feels the need to confide in his long-trusted companion. "There are times when the mantle of destiny can colour the relationship between two people. She knew me only as a Ranger." His grey eyes soften in remembrance. "We were together exactly twice. Yet those times were the most happy and unaffected I have spent since my childhood." His strong shoulders heave in a sigh of melancholy. "Alas, those times are forever in the past. My future is not mine to give."

***************************

 

In the days to come, Aragorn and the Grey Company embark on the Paths of the Dead, summoning a great Shadow Army to fight for Gondor in final discharge of their ancient, unfulfilled Oath. While Sauron besieges Minas Tirith with an overwhelming force, Aragorn leads this Wraith Host to capture the Corsair fleet and sail up the River Anduin, arriving in time to turn the tide at the Battle of Pelennor.   


Yet though Sauron's army is thus defeated before the Gates of Minas Tirith, the fate of the Ring-bearer still hangs in the balance. Therefore, Aragorn boldly rides out with the Men of the West, advancing with an army towards the Black Gate, drawing the Eye of Sauron, buying time for the One who carries the Ring into the Dark Lord's lair. 

  
On the sixth day of the march, the Captains pass by to the North-East of Cair Andros. As they come to the end of the living lands, Aragorn pulls up and casts his gaze back in the direction of the Great River. Beregond of the Guard, currently in the personal service of Lord Faramir, reins in beside him. 

  
"Any word of the Isle?" Aragorn asks quietly, grey eyes on distant shores. 

  
Beregond is honored to be consulted, and has himself paid close heed to any news from Ithilien or the Island, for from thence came his family in generations past. "The Isle was lost some thirteen days ago, my Lord Aragorn," he reports gravely. "Refugees, mostly mothers with children, reached the City in the last days before the Siege." 

  
Aragorn's eyes close momentarily. "Were there any survivors among the defenders?" he breathes the question, fearing the answer.   


"That is not known," Beregond responds dutifully. "Those that fled spoke of fighters that stayed behind, acting as guerrillas, harassing the Enemy. Yet I fear that in the end, the Isle must have been overrun." 

  
Aragorn hangs his head, and for a moment, he seems to Beregond merely a man, bowed to the point of breaking by the losses of war. Then Aragorn resolutely raises his eyes and turns to the Company arrayed behind him. With pity, he perceives among them the young and inexperienced, hailing from simple homes, quailing at the prospect of setting foot in Mordor. These are no warriors; they do not even understand the Evil against which they march. In kindness and wisdom, Aragorn releases the faint-hearted, exhorting them to preserve their honor by making their way to Cair Andros and re-taking the island. 

  
From his seat atop Shadowfax, Gandalf overhears these proceedings. Although Aragorn has kept his counsel these many months, never once speaking of their exchange in the stable at Butterbur's, Gandalf has known the reserved Ranger for many years. Long has the wizard suspected that his advice to forget the Lady Ranger has proven impossible to heed. Indeed, his suspicions are now borne out by what he has just witnessed.   
  


Gandalf's heart is heavy for his old friend. He speaks his exhortation in quiet, reverential tones. "May the Wisdom of the Valar bring to pass your true happiness, Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

***********************

Two days later, the Captains of the West face the full might of Sauron in the Desolation of the Morannon. It is a desperate, pitched battle, one that the Host of the Western Lands cannot possibly win by force of arms. Yet they are, whether Man, Elf, Dwarf, Hobbit, or Wizard, glorious in valor, limitless in sacrifice. In the moment when all seems lost, having risked everything, surrounded and overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers, the Company suddenly hears the cry go up from Gandalf, "The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!" 

  
And the Nazgul are routed, the Earth quakes beneath their feet, the hosts of Mordor turn and flee in terror, the Black Gate is thrown down, the Power of the Dark Lord explodes impotent into the heavens. 

  
The Ring-bearer's Quest is fulfilled. 

  
The realm of Sauron is ended.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More self-serving notes from the peanut gallery:
> 
> A necessary bridging chapter, to give the sense of the passage of time. Aragorn and company were overtaken by Halbarad on the return from Isengard. He brought what remained of the Northern Dunedain to aid their Chieftain. They did camp in the Hornburg. Halbarad fell in the Battle for the White City.
> 
> Cair Andros was a strategic point in the defence of Gondor. Faramir did maintain a garrison there. They were overrun in the last days preceeding the seige, primarily because Denethor, in his arrogance, had refused to shore up the defenses. The force of the Black Lord that crossed into Gondor via the island delayed the Rohirrim on their march to Minas Tirith. In the final march of the Host of the West on Mordor, Aragorn does release a small company of soldiers, tasking them to earn their honor by re-taking the Isle.
> 
> Beregond is a real character from the books. He is Pippin's guide to the City and the world of the Citadel Guard. He is later seconded by Aragorn to the personal company of Faramir.


	14. CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Praise them with great praise!" The glorious words, celebrating the deeds of the Ring-bearer and his faithful esquire, still echo in the glades of fair Ithilien, and in the hearts and minds of the company that now lies encamped upon the Field of Cormallen. The triumphant Warriors of the West take their ease beside the stream of Henneth Annun, some to repair their wounds, some to restore their strength, some to reunite with their lost companions, all to rejoice in the new time of hope and peace.   


Thus pass the early days of April, in rejoicing and relaxation, in recuperation for the return to Minas Tirith. With the Shadow lifted, springtime advances in leaps and bounds, each dawn seeming to coax forth a new flower, each breeze seeming to carry the fragrance of a different blossom. Aragorn is occupied with many responsibilities, healing the injured, honouring the fallen, commending the victorious, coordinating the withdrawal, pondering the times ahead and his return to the White City as Isildur's rightful Heir.   


Late one afternoon Gandalf comes to the King's tent, to find Aragorn stretched out on the ground, eyes closed, dark head propped against his pack. As the change in the light crosses his face, the erstwhile Ranger awakes with a start, automatically reaching to his side. Then he jumps up, grinning upon seeing the white-robed wizard.   


"Forgive me, Gandalf!" He gestures with a laugh to his ungirded waist. "Old habits die hard."   


  
His friend chuckles. "No need for apologies," the wizard assures him mirthfully, "so long as you did not relieve me of my head!" His kindly eyes pause for a fraction of a second longer than necessary on Aragorn's visage. "You will always be both a Ranger and a King. The one need not supercede the other."   


Aragorn nods. "I will remember that, wise friend." The two share a smile of understanding.   


"Now," Aragorn continues graciously, "what can I offer you? Pippin has shared with me a bit of the Longbottom Leaf that he and Merry liberated from the ruins of Orthanc. A pinch to fill your pipe?" 

  
Gandalf is tempted. "Perhaps a bit for the road," he consents finally.   


"You are leaving?" Aragorn asks in surprise, as he delves into his satchel for his tobacco pouch.   


The wizard helps himself, transferring a little of the fine pipeweed into his own small bag. "Shadowfax and I grow restless," he confesses disingenuously. "We will make a swift trip to the City, to check the progress of your patients in the Houses of Healing." Although he does not say so aloud, he will also take the pulse of the population, in preparation for the return of their King.   


"A good idea," accedes Aragorn, accepting the hand-over of his pouch, keeping it out for his own use. "Will you return with news?"   


"Most assuredly," replies Gandalf. "Riding upon the Mighty Steed of the _Mearas_ , I shall be in the City by nightfall. Look for me on the day after the morrow, at the latest." 

  
Turning to leave, the old wizard pats his pocket. "I thank you for your hospitality." Then, with a snap of the tent flap, he disappears, as wizards are wont to do. 

 

***********************   


 

Floating above the Citadel in all its fullness, the swollen moon casts its beam across the seven-layered face of Minas Tirith, receiving its silvery light back again in reflection from the shining pinnacles and ramparts of the White City. No less white and shining are the robes of the figure that hurries down the hallway in the Houses of Healing. In one hand he carries a shuttered lantern; in the other, a tall staff.   


Gandalf has been well pleased by the course of the recovery of those friends fallen in defense of the City. The Hands of the King have indeed wrought healing. Both are now mending rapidly, called back from the edge of the Shadow by Aragorn's skill with the Curing Herbs.   


The hour is late and the House is hushed and quiet. Yet up ahead, Gandalf's keen hearing locates the sound of a soft voice murmuring, as if in a dream. Stopping at the open door of a small room, he finds an injured woman sleeping fitfully. 

  
"Strider…….Strider….." she repeats in a voice tinged with longing. Then, more gently still, "Dunadan………." 

  
In the light from the hallway sconce, her face is pale and drawn. She seems smaller, and with her bandaged shoulder more vulnerable, than on the eve when he saw her draw swords at The Pony. He wonders with a rising sense of irony how long she has been in the keeping of the Healers. 

  
As if summoned by Gandalf's unspoken question, the Warden of the Houses appears. Gazing past the wizard's shoulder at Maranwe's unquiet slumber, he relates what he knows of her story.   


"She was one of the last defenders of Cair Andros. She and a handful of other brave fighters remained in hiding when the Isle was breached, attempting to sabotage the army of Mordor as they crossed into Anorien. She fell during the re-taking of the Isle by the King's Men." Shaking his head in admiration of her deeds and of the providence that preserved her, the Healer proclaims, "I deem it fortunate that a force of the King's vanguard was there to bring her hither." 

  
Gandalf nods sagely, seeing pieces begin to fall into place. While she was not yet in the Houses at the time of Aragorn's secret visit there, she has nevertheless been saved by an action of his. "Perhaps more than fortune, Master Ensore," he muses, propping his staff against the doorframe. Although Maranwe has now fallen silent, her breathing is rapid and irregular. With concern, the wizard inquires, "How grievous is her wound?" 

  
"Her shoulder was pierced by a knife of the cruel Easterlings," answers the Healer with a dark scowl. "Fortunately, the wound is not deep, and she is strong and fit. Her body will be sound again. It is her spirit that seems troubled." 

  
Knowing there is no poison of Mordor at work, Gandalf is heartened. The bonds of friendship dictate that he will most certainly ease Aragorn's mind with word of the Lady Ranger's survival. It is the least he can do.   


After a pause, he queries with mild curiosity, "Do you know her name?" 

  
The Warden pulls something from his pocket. "She has been in and out of wakefulness these past two weeks, exhaustion and injury sapping her strength. If her mind was not clouded by pain, the name she gave was quite uncommon: Maranwe." 

  
Gandalf starts. Uncommon, indeed - an ancient word, preserved in its purest form, and not rendered with a derivative feminine ending, as is the naming custom across much of Gondor. 

  
Master Ensore continues, "She was wearing this token about her neck when she fell. I have held it for safekeeping until she regains herself, for it seems quite a dear treasure." 

  
From the outstretched hand of the Warden, Gandalf plucks a shimmering _mithril_ necklace. The thick woven chain coils sinuously in his palm, creating a nest for the pendant it carries. The wizard closes his hand around the circlet and holds the token up to the light. Hanging from the loop before his eyes is an exquisite miniature casting of a warrior's sword, a sword with an unusual hollow pommel. Along both sides of the blade, ancient script, rendered small beyond the skill of Men's detailing, tells a tale in Elven Verse.   


Glad of his acute eyesight, Gandalf silently reads the inscription. His eyes narrow in contemplation, then grow wide. A sense of urgent excitement overtakes him.   


"I must speak with her alone! Leave us!" he commands. 

  
"She is weak, Gandalf," protests the Warden. "Give her time to heal." 

  
Closing his hand over the necklace and gazing at Maranwe's sleeping form, the wizard declares, "Have no fear, Master Healer. If things are as I now suspect, I bring her tidings that will heal her more fully than all the herb-lore in Gondor."


	15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The sun is warm on her naked skin, as she lies in the soft grass beside the pool. A muted splashing sound induces her to turn her head. Rising from the water is a compelling figure of manhood, still glistening with moisture and dripping from his swim. His strong hands brush the droplets back through his long, dark hair. Eagerly, he comes into her arms, covering her with his teasing kisses, caressing her with his skillful fingers, causing a moan to escape her lips.   


Suddenly they are interrupted by the appearance of a longhaired elder gentleman, clothed in grey robes, brandishing a towering staff. Sternly, he addresses the man in her arms. "The throne of Gondor needs you. The Fates have already chosen your helpmate. Forget this Lady Ranger." 

  
For one anguished moment, the two lovers gaze into each other's eyes. Then she opens her arms and releases him. As he recedes, he is transformed before her into a King in fine raiment, lordly, unfamiliar, unattainable. 

  
"Strider," she whispers in farewell, her heart aching. "Dunadan….." 

  
The loop of the oft-recurring dream closes, and Maranwe's eyes open, focusing slowly on the white-haired wizard in the doorway. 

  
"You." She snorts softly, turning away with cold indifference. 

  
Stepping closer, Gandalf addresses her with kindliness. "I cannot blame you for failing to welcome me," he allows, with an understanding smile. "You see me as a catalyst for only heartache in your life. Yet in this hour, I may set in motion a new destiny for you, Maranwe."   


Turning with sharp curiosity, she questions softly, "How do you know my name?" 

  
In answer, Gandalf opens his large hand, allowing the _mithril_ necklace to drop, hanging from his fingertips. "Where did you get this, my child?" he asks gently. 

  
Silence reigns within the small room. For long minutes, the only sound Maranwe hears is the beating of her own heart. She feels poised on the brink, daring to hope that a lifetime of questions might now be answered by this Master of Lore and Learning. She sees in his face no hint of an ulterior motive, only wisdom and solicitude. Closing her eyes momentarily, she makes a fateful determination. With her decision to trust the wizard, comes the welcome sense of a burden lifted.   


Collecting her thoughts, Maranwe takes a deep breath and begins. "My mother gave it into my keeping, the day I completed my 20th year. I was told my father made it when I was but a babe." 

  
Her detached recitation puzzles Gandalf. "Who are your parents? Where do they dwell?" he presses for details. 

  
Maranwe hesitates briefly before continuing her meager history. "I never knew my father. His name was Erufailaru. He gave his life protecting us from an Orc attack in North Ithilien. My mother, Anorwen, took refuge on the Isle of Cair Andros." Maranwe drops her gaze to look past Gandalf in sadness. "It is there that I was raised and that she is buried."   


The wizard's powers of perception tell him that Maranwe is holding nothing back, yet he still does not understand how she can bear this token so unsuspectingly. The pieces seem right, but there is something that prevents them from fitting together. "What more do you know of your heritage?" he picks resolutely at the puzzle. 

  
Maranwe gives a short, ironic laugh. "I know nothing further about my lineage. My mother was quite adamant about not telling me more. She claimed to be protecting me from some…." --she gives a frustrated, helpless gesture-- "…some ** _thing_** , some Evil." 

  
Gandalf nods, finally recognizing in Maranwe's narrative a mother's love not unlike that of another young woman, who once hid her son's heritage from him. The wizard speaks soothing words to this lost daughter. "Then I will tell you, Maranwe, for the danger is past." Parking his lamp atop the bedside table, he seats himself at the foot of the mattress. 

  
In a small, bewildered voice, Maranwe asks, "How do you know the history of my lineage?" 

  
Gandalf smiles. "That tale is preserved in the Lore of your father's House." His reply only leaves her more bewildered. 

  
Settling into his story-telling mode, the wizard now weaves his words together in rich tones. "Your father was Erufailaru, an Elf-Lord of the House of Celeborn, and a Master Craftsman among the Elves of Lorien. He took as his wife Anorwen, a distant daughter of the Southern Dunedain, descended through lost generations from Galsiladien, half-sister to Earnur, last King of Gondor." Maranwe stares at him in wonder. "The couple dwelt in Ithilien, and soon bore a child, a daughter in whom rested a secret destiny." 

  
"But the Servants of the Enemy sought them out, and Erufailaru died protecting his wife and child. Mother and daughter then disappeared, hidden from both the baleful Eye of Sauron and the benevolent watch of the Elves." 

  
Maranwe shakes her head in disbelief. Passing her hand across her face as if to clear her confusion, she protests weakly, "This is difficult to understand. You are certain?" 

  
"Quite," Gandalf replies forcefully. Then, kindly, "Do you not even know the meaning of your own name, my dear?" 

  
"Another mystery," declares Maranwe with a negative shrug, followed by a small wince of pain for her shoulder. "A Quenya name, said to be chosen by my father. Yet here in the South, the meaning is lost. Of the Elven tongues, Sindarin is the only one still spoken by some." 

  
"Your father named you with a purpose," Gandalf tells her unequivocally. "The High Elven Quenya translates in the Common Speech as - Destiny." 

  
Suddenly, the isolation of living without birthright or legacy, the pain of years with both her past and her future hidden, the loneliness of belonging nowhere, all come flooding over her. "Why could not my mother have told me some of this?" asks Maranwe bitterly, her voice breaking in hurt and disappointment. 

  
"Do not think ill of your mother, Maranwe," the wizard counsels charitably. "She was blinded, driven only by love and fear for you. Indeed, by maintaining your ignorance so completely and carrying the burden solely of herself, she was able to hide the two of you under the very nose of Sauron. When the Dark Lord found no word of you in all of Middle Earth, he may have been lulled into thinking you had perished of natural causes during childhood." 

  
Maranwe digests this, then asks reasonably, "Why would Sauron wish me dead, even as a child?" 

  
Marveling at the degree to which she has been shielded, Gandalf answers gently, "Because of who you would grow up to be." 

  
Glancing at the gift of Elven craftsmanship in his hand, the wizard leads the conversation closer to the final truth. "What did Anorwen tell you regarding this token?" He can already guess at the gist of Maranwe's answer.   


"Very little," is the succinct and unsurprising reply. "She commanded me to hide it, to reveal it to no one. She said only that it was the key to my destiny," --a touch of sarcasm still clings to Maranwe's words-- "…whatever that may be. I cannot even read the inscription." 

  
Looking away, she takes a deep breath. When her eyes return to Gandalf's face, there is a plea revealed in them. "Are you able to unlock the words?" 

  
Gandalf inclines his head gravely. "The verses are also Quenya, written in an ancient script that few in these days can read, save Elves and Wizards." 

  
Maranwe's necklace seems infused with light, as Gandalf holds it up with a critical eye. "Erufailaru came from a long line of Elven Silversmiths. This is one of the finest examples of _mithrilcraft_ I have ever seen." 

  
"A strange token," Maranwe submits discerningly, nervous fingers plucking at the edge of her covers. "I have never seen such a sword." 

  
Nodding, thinking back over the sequence of events, Gandalf replies mysteriously, "No, you would not have. However, I predict you will see one like it very soon." 

  
A further realization comes to the wizard. He looks at Maranwe in shrewd understanding overlaid with dawning compassion. "You did not hear our entire conversation in the stable at Butterbur's."   


It takes a moment for her to follow the leap in Gandalf's discourse. Frowning in annoyance, Maranwe wonders why he must bring this up now. There is an edge to her voice when she responds. "No, I arrived in time to hear that Strider … Aragorn … had a destiny to fulfill. And that I was not to be part of it," she reminds him caustically.   


Gandalf takes her hand, his face kindly. "Let me now undo some of the hurt I caused that day. These are the words inscribed here." 

 

"And a Rose shall grow in Ithilien

At the feet of the White Tree of Gondor

Out of the House of Celeborn

Through a mother's lineage of old."

"When the Sword that was broken is healed,

When the Heir of Isildur returns,

Then shall this child Maranwe

As Elessar's Rose be revealed." 

As he finishes, Gandalf places the necklace into Maranwe's hand and waits expectantly for her reaction.   


She ponders for a moment, then bites her lip. "I still do not understand." A beat goes by before she dares to ask softly, "Who is Elessar?" 

  
Relishing his new role as herald of joyful news, the wizard chuckles avuncularly. "My dear Maranwe, Elessar is the name given in Celeborn's House to the man you know as Strider -- Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor." 

  
Maranwe's eyes grow wider, then close halfway. High colour returns to her cheeks. 

  
"I see you have not forgotten him," laughs Gandalf heartily. "That is fortunate. For to this wizard's eye, your Strider has not forgotten you either." 

  
Maranwe is momentarily short of breath, the revelations of the last hour and the possibilities they bring throwing her emotions into turmoil. Hiding her trembling smile behind shaking fingers, she speaks two words, heartfelt yet forever inadequate, "Thank you." 

  
Patting the other hand that holds the necklace, Gandalf exhorts her, "Wear your token freely, Maranwe, for you are the One Foretold, you are Elessar's Rose of Ithilien." His eyes twinkle. "Rest now, while you may. For I suspect you will soon have another visitor."   


"He will come?" Maranwe murmurs, still scarcely daring to believe it. 

  
It does not require the ken of a wizard for Gandalf to make his prediction. With a throaty chuckle, he assures her, "My dear, when I tell him the truth of these things, there is nothing in Middle Earth that will keep him from your side." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the appendices, Aragorn's mother, Gilraen, concealed his heritage from her son. He was not told of the fate that rested in him until he was twenty years of age, by Elrond.
> 
> The last Numenorean-descended King in Gondor was Earnur. He died childless, preferring warring to love-making. He rode out against the Witch King and was never seen again. I fabricated his half-sister for my own purposes.


	16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Br-r-r-r-a-a-a-p-p!!!" The explosion of air rumbles forth, up from the belly of one well-fed Hobbit. Wiggling his dark eyebrows at his best friend, Merry challenges waggishly, "See if you can top that one, Pip!"

  
Pippin's cheerful face breaks into a silly grin. "Oh, good one, Merry!" he compliments with exaggerated courtesy. "Let me see what I can come up with!" Eyelids dropping in concentration, he leans back and laces his fingers across his full stomach. In short order, not to be outdone, he produces his own prodigious burp. Opening his bright eyes, he sends a satisfied smirk in Merry's direction.

  
Relaxing into one of his slow, sweet smiles, Frodo laughs softly at the windy contestants. "Well, I'm glad to see the two of you haven't grown up completely," he declares fondly, while from his seat nearby, Sam makes a show of rolling his eyes.

  
Both young Hobbits turn quickly in mock indignation. Parking his hands on his hips, Merry asks loftily, "What do you mean, 'haven't grown up'?"

  
Pippin pipes up pertly, "We happen to think these are **_very_** adult belches." Frodo and Sam can only shake their heads indulgently.

The Hobbit friends are gathered around a well-banked fire pit, having just finished Luncheon, the fourth meal of the day in the Hobbit gastronomic chronology. The remains of four savory fowl still cling to the double spit, suspended over a wide bed of coals. Within the glowing embers, a strange round metal pot lies tilted on its side, giving off a bit of steam. Sam is diligently tending to the cooking and clean up, clearly enjoying this opportunity to prepare a taste of the Shire for his companions.

It is no accident that they have been eating well these past days. When the supply van rode out from Minas Tirith to provision the victorious army in the Field of Cormallen, they brought with them a special advisor in Hobbit cuisine. Merry personally oversaw the selection of foodstuffs for the Ringbearers' celebration, also making certain that these four plump young hens made the trip, reserved though they were for Sam's rotisserie.

  
Watching his stocky companion fuss over the spit, Frodo's thoughts are drawn back to a dark day on a cliffside in the Emyn Muil. His wide blue eyes grow softly reminiscent. "So," he says in a quiet voice that only two can hear, "your box of seasoning came in handy after all, Sam."

  
His friend's earnest face looks up without a hint of I-told-you-so rancor. "I thought it might, Mr. Frodo," Sam responds agreeably. "I've had a hankerin' for roast chicken ever since we left the Shire." Pulling on a Man-sized leather glove for protection, he reaches over the coals and shakes the black metal receptacle. "And 'taters, too!" he exclaims. "At least there's one thing these old Orc helmets are good for. They make a fair cookin' pot, once you clean 'em out inside. Who wants the last 'tater?" he calls out.

  
"O-o-o-o-o, me!" speaks up Merry promptly, scrambling in Sam's direction. "I need more fuel for the next round of competition."

  
"Ye're hopeless." Shaking his head, Sam plucks the potato from the pot and lofts it towards Merry. In an impressive display of food preservation, Merry manages to catch and juggle the hot vegetable without dropping it. His antics afford much merriment for everyone.

Nearby, Legolas and Gimli are having a competition of their own. A short distance out, a fallen stump bears the concentric mark of a crudely painted bull's-eye. Now the two stand ready to trade weapons, each answering the challenge to try the other's skill.  


Dour expression firmly in place, Gimli awkwardly clutches the long, graceful Elven arch. He threads an arrow and makes a desultory attempt to aim, but the foot of the bow strikes the dirt and the shaft goes awry.

  
"Flighty Elvish weapon!" he mutters in frustration.

  
Legolas stares at him intently, then takes his turn with Gimli's axe. His throw fares little better. The heavy, double-headed Dwarf hatchet thuds harmlessly into the target by its handle and falls to the ground.  


"Clumsy Dwarvish weapon!" the Elf retorts, eyes flashing.  


Munching on a drumstick in relative safety, Aragorn suppresses a smile. From his spot alongside the two contestants, he fears he may have to act as both mediator and spectator. "Try again, gentlemen!" he encourages loudly.

  
Craggy features puckering into a grimace, the Dwarf plucks another arrow from the quiver, while Legolas takes visual measure of the distance to the stump. Catching Gimli's eye behind the Elf's back, Aragorn stretches out his flattened hand, flipping his palm from vertical to horizontal with a pointed look and a nod towards the bow. As he glances up the length of it, light dawns on the Dwarf's face. With a chagrined smile, he turns the weapon ninety degrees, sights carefully, and sends an arrow squarely into the center of the target.  
  
"Much better!" he congratulates himself, bobbing his head in satisfaction. He plods off to retrieve their implements.  


Legolas turns to Aragorn with a bemused look. "You helped him," he accuses good-naturedly.

  
Aragorn nods patiently at the tall Elf. "Those who are shorter sometimes need to make their own advantage," he explains easily, but immediately a flicker of sadness touches the grey eyes, as Aragorn recalls another diminutive fighter who used unusual tactics to her advantage in battle.

  
Legolas' piercing gaze fixes his friend with concern. His Elven intuition has sensed a sadness in Aragorn for some time, a sadness that remains even now, on the eve of what should be the happiest time of the new King's life. Yet it is not the Elf's way to press another for personal confidences. The moment passes.  


"Here ye go," Gimli offers magnanimously, returning with axe handle outstretched. Assuming his throwing stance, Legolas accepts, hefting the Dwarf weapon appraisingly.

  
"Ye must get a feel for how fast she travels, based on your own strength" -a mildly withering glare from Legolas-- "and the weight of the axe," Gimli instructs, actually striving not to be patronizing. "Then ye must time your release to control the revolutions."

  
Legolas narrows his eyes for a moment in concentration, then snaps his forearm sharply and releases. End-over-end, straight and true, the axe rapidly reaches its mark, burying itself deeply into the bull's-eye.

  
"Much better," the Elf agrees dryly, sharing a smile with his unlikely friend from the underground realms.

  
The approach of thundering hooves captures the attention of all. "Gandalf!" cries Frodo joyfully. Wheeling to a halt before Aragorn and the others, the wizard hails the company.

"I did not expect you this soon," remarks Aragorn in surprise, steadying the head of the magnificent stallion as Gandalf dismounts.  


"I said I would return with news," the wizard reminds him with a droll smile and a squeeze of the forearm. Aragorn looks at him curiously as the Hobbits rush up.

"How are the Lady Eowyn and Lord Faramir?" asks Merry anxiously. He is only just recently recovered from his own battle wounds, and remembers well the days the three spent regaining their health among the Healers' gardens.

  
"They are both faring splendidly, quite splendidly indeed," announces Gandalf like a proud father. "Faramir takes his duties as Steward quite seriously, with full knowledge, and fealty to the one who will replace him. In truth, the whole City prepares to rejoice at the return of their King." Gandalf speaks directly to his friend. "They will welcome you with open arms, Aragorn." A small nod and a slight smile acknowledge the wizard's words.

  
"Well, of course they will!" declares Gimli heartily, clapping Aragorn roughly on the back. The entire group enthusiastically voices their agreement.

As the accolades die away, Gandalf grasps the King by the elbow, continuing mysteriously, "Walk with me." The group parts, as the two move off with Shadowfax following majestically behind.

  
"Now what do you make of that?" Pippin wonders aloud, as he watches their retreating figures. "Matters of the realm, I suppose," he answers his own question matter-of-factly.

  
The Ring-bearer gives a thoughtful sigh. "I don't know," says Frodo slowly, "but old Gandalf had quite a twinkle in his eye." A certain wisdom marks his words. "I think perhaps Gandalf Stormcrow might well be re-named Gandalf Meadowlark, Bearer of Glad Tidings."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: Although in PJ's version, Merry is shown at the Black Gate, in the books, Merry remains reluctantly behind in the Houses of Healing, and is the first witness to the budding romance between Faramir and Eowyn.


	17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

With a twisting dive, Aragorn invades the cooking area on his way past, snatching up the last hunk of bread and another drumstick. He snaps a jaunty salute and a breezy grin in the Hobbits' direction, then proceeds on his way amid laughing cries of "Food Thief!" and "Pilfering Ranger!" 

  
He and Gandalf saunter in silence for a short ways, out of earshot of the others. Eventually they pause to tarry among a copse of felled trees, yet more evidence of wanton Orc destruction. As though sensing the Evil that once marred this spot, Shadowfax tosses his intelligent head and nickers, eager to be away. Gandalf calms him with a touch of his hand, and the mighty horse trots off to graze nearby. 

  
Leaning against the curve of a massive fallen trunk, Aragorn divides his attention between the wizard and the food at hand. "Those are glad tidings indeed from the White City," he affirms between bites of the succulent meat. "Yet you did not have to hurry so, to bring me news of Eowyn and Faramir. When Merry arrived, he gave an encouraging report of their progress." 

  
Gandalf smiles indulgently. "As welcome as their recovery is, it was not my encounter with the Lady of Rohan nor with the Steward of Gondor that gave haste to my return," he reveals with an air of mystery. His eyes twinkle. "There is one other in Master Ensore's care, one who calls your name in her dreams." 

  
Aragorn pauses, a handful of bread halfway to his mouth. His eyes turn warily to Gandalf. "Not Eowyn," he states the obvious, nevertheless raising one skeptical eyebrow. 

  
The wizard shakes his head. "No, fair Eowyn's affections have found a new home with the Lord Faramir." 

  
Nodding once, Aragorn interjects with a touch of relief, "That is well." 

  
Gandalf continues expansively. "No, the one of whom I speak, a Ranger I believe," -he pauses slyly- "is recently evacuated from Cair Andros, where she fought bravely in defense of her homeland." 

  
Aragorn puts down his food and jumps up, all hunger forgotten. "Is she badly injured?" he asks quickly. 

  
"She has a knife wound in her shoulder," is the unwelcome answer. 

  
Aragorn grasps the wizard's forearm urgently. "Was it an Orc blade?" he demands with alarm. 

  
Gandalf pats his hand in reassurance. "Thankfully, it was only the blade of one of the fell Men of the East. Her body will heal." 

  
Aragorn turns away, hiding his emotions. "I thank you, old friend," he murmurs softly. "To know that she is safe and well is the best of news indeed." He sits and resumes eating, demeanor withdrawn. 

  
Propping his wizard's staff and his tall frame against the fallen log, Gandalf looks at his friend searchingly. "Know you nothing of her past?" he asks. 

  
With a tilt of his chin, Aragorn pauses to consider his conversations with the Lady Ranger. "She was as guarded about her past as I was about mine, in some ways, more so," he concedes after a moment. 

  
"And you have never seen the necklace she bears?" 

  
Aragorn shakes his head, nonplussed. "If she has such a thing, she hid it from me." Yet even as he says the words, his eyes narrow and he rivets the wizard with unwavering attention. 

  
"Yes, she hid it very well from all," nods Gandalf. "Had she not worn it into battle and there fallen, it might be hidden still."   


Perplexed, but with cautious suspicion building within him, Aragorn grows weary of the wizard's riddles. "Gandalf, what are you hinting at?" 

  
Much too slowly for Aragorn, the story comes out. "I spoke with Maranwe at great length last evening. She herself knew almost nothing about her past." Aragorn's face shows his surprise. "Much as Gilraen shielded you during your youth, Maranwe's heritage was kept from her," Gandalf explains. "In fact, she was bound by her mother to conceal this one thing that marks her apart from all others." Aragorn feels the breath catch in his lungs at these last words. The wizard's voice softens. "The token she wears was made for her at the time of her birth……..by her Elven father." 

  
Aragorn stands bolt upright. "What is the token?! Tell me!" he demands.   


Great affection colours the wizard's countenance, as he reveals the truth that will surely heal. "It is honed from the finest _mithril,_ and bears verse in ancient Quenya script:   
  


   

"And a Rose shall grow in Ithilien

At the feet of the White Tree of Gondor

Out of the House of Celeborn

Through a mother's lineage of old."

"When the Sword that was broken is healed,

When the Heir of Isildur returns,

Then shall this child Maranwe

As Elessar's Rose be revealed." 

 

"The token itself is a likeness of Anduril," Gandalf finishes in solemn triumph.   


He breaks into delighted laughter, as joy and excitement diffuse the face of his longtime friend. "It would seem I owe you both an apology," the wizard offers with rare humility. "Obviously, your two young hearts knew better than one old wizard." 

  
Aragorn clasps his friend gratefully by the shoulder. "No apologies, Gandalf. Sometimes the heart sees that which is invisible to the eye," he says with quiet assurance. "You have set all things aright by bringing me this news." He balls his fist in sudden frustration, fretting aloud in impatience, "Would that I were not some five days from Minas Tirith!" His dark hair whips across his face as he swivels, pacing to and fro like a caged animal.   


"I **will** set things right," Gandalf vows, standing. Pursing his lips, he emits a melodious whistle, bringing the silver coated _mearh_ galloping to his side. "Shadowfax can bear you to the White City in hours rather than days."   


Aragorn looks at the wizard in disbelief. "Shadowfax suffers no other rider except the Grey Pilgrim. That is known," he demurs in wonder. 

  
Smiling wisely, Gandalf retorts, "He will suffer any I ask him to." Turning, the wizard whispers soft Elvish cadences into the great horse's ear. Shadowfax inclines his proud head, then steps to Aragorn's side. Receiving a nod from the wizard, Aragorn grasps the flowing white mane, mounting easily with a horseman's sure skill. 

  
"Enter the City in secret," Gandalf cautions, " and rejoin this company 'ere it marks your absence. The King must enter Minas Tirith by his rightful path." 

  
"I will return on the morrow," Aragorn promises, pivoting the stallion, anxious to leave. Leaning down, he clasps Gandalf's arm once again in profound gratitude. "My undying thanks is yours," he vows sincerely, his bearded face breaking into a broad smile. 

  
Gandalf returns the smile, then admonishes, "Now fly to her, Aragorn, for she is waiting." 

 

********************************** 

 

"Now will ye look at that!" the Dwarf excitedly draws their attention. "Aragorn just rode off in the direction of his tent!" 

  
"And riding Shadowfax, no less!" the Elf exclaims, keen eyes picking out Aragorn's swiftly retreating form.   


The six friends, two-thirds of the membership of the original Fellowship, are gathered round the cooking fire, reminiscing. The aroma of fine pipeweed rings the heads of Gimli and the four Hobbits. 

  
Pippin inhales contemplatively. "I don't suppose there's any use in asking Gandalf what's going on," he laments with faint hope. 

  
"Good luck with that, Pip," scoffs Merry. "Trying to get a secret out of that old wizard is like trying to get Sam's old Gaffer to give up his recipe for homebrew." The two young Hobbits share a conspiratorial wink. 

  
Sam shoots Merry a sharp look. "Not bloody likely," he mutters to no one in particular. 

  
"No, not too likely at all," laughs Frodo. "Still," he muses, "I do wonder what's afoot. Aragorn seemed in a terrible hurry." 

  
"He did, at that," agrees Sam with a grin. He holds up his makeshift potholder. "Wherever he's goin' in such a hurry," Sam points out in his practical way, "I hope he won't be needin' his other glove!" 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the original text, Shadowfax is described as having a silver-grey coat, not white. Hence the name.


	18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Dusk envelops the White City, as the rich tolling of the Timekeeper's bell fades away, marking the hour of sundown. The people of Minas Tirith hurry about their errands, intent on home and hearth. None mark the cloaked and hooded figure that glides noiselessly among them, making its way swiftly up the path to the Houses of Healing. A battle-scarred hand, adorned with a silver ring, slips from beneath the grey folds, clapping the ornate knocker sharply against the entry door of the Main House. After a minute's wait, the portal is opened. 

  
"Show me to the chamber of the Lady Ranger, Maranwe," requests the mysterious visitor in subdued yet commanding tones. 

  
The Warden is taken aback, but the stranger's deep voice brooks no argument. Stepping aside, he motions in welcome, "This way." 

  
As he sets foot over the threshold, the cloaked man pushes his hood onto his shoulders. "My Lord and King," exclaims Master Ensore, bowing his head. 

  
Catching and holding the Healer's gaze, Aragorn charges him gravely, "Discretion, Warden. What I need from you is your solemn promise that my visit here will be held in secret." 

  
"As you command, my Lord," vows the Warden. Aragorn inclines his head in thanks. "Come," Ensore beckons, plucking a lantern from the sideboard behind him. 

  
He leads the way down a short passageway, then turns at right angles, passing three empty rooms before stopping. "It is the next door on the right," he indicates with a nod. He looks with shrewd curiosity at the King, opening hopefully, "She is much improved since Mithrandir's visit last evening." 

  
A smile touches the bearded face of the King. "Good news," he responds without further elaboration. He turns to the Warden with an air of finality. "Thank you." 

  
As the Healer turns to leave, Aragorn glances questioningly at the lantern. "There is a light in the room," Ensore assures him, shuffling off slowly. Aragorn waits impatiently for him to be gone.   


At the juncture of the hallways, the Master of the Houses pauses, glancing back voyeuristically. "Go!" commands Aragorn, in a voice thin with annoyance. Bowing obsequiously, the Warden finally departs. 

  
Aragorn now bends his keen senses towards the opening ahead. All is quiet from within, leading Aragorn to suspect that Maranwe is asleep. Loosening the laces, he slips off his boots and tiptoes to the doorway. Taking a deep breath, he looks inside and his heart is full. 

  
Maranwe lies propped up against her pillows, eyes closed, breathing gently. In the light from the bedside lamp, her hair appears darkly luxurious as it lies against her skin. Aragorn winces momentarily to see the soft muslin bandage encircling her left shoulder blade. The bedcovers have fallen to her waist, revealing her to be scantily clad in a lightweight, silken shift, rendered nearly transparent by the soft glow. The same gentle light mutes the drawn lines of Maranwe's face. Though pale from the strain of healing, she seems more lovely than he has remembered. Gazing at her sleeping form, Aragorn is filled with a fierce mixture of tenderness and desire. And in that moment, he first comes to know by name the emotion he feels for her. 

 

As if sensing his presence, Maranwe's eyelids flutter open. For what seems an eternity, no words pass between them. Then in two powerful, long strides, he is at her side, she is in his arms. Cupping the back of her skull in one large hand, he curls his fingers through her tresses and pulls her head back, kissing her with tender ferocity. Maranwe's body seems to tremble against him. Suddenly mindful of her wound, Aragorn breaks away, hands lightly caressing the length of her bare arms, as he reluctantly encourages her to lie back again. Gently, he fingers the edge of the wrapped dressing. 

  
"Did you slay the one who did this to you?" he asks quietly, after a prolonged pause. 

  
"I did," Maranwe affirms softly, acutely aware of his touch.   


Aragorn nods, hardly surprised. "Then I cannot thank him," he determines, with a logic that at first seems strange to Maranwe's thinking. Tenderly, he explains, "Had you not sustained this wound, we might be parted still." Their eyes meet in understanding. 

  
Yet after a moment, Maranwe demurs, pleading in a small voice, "Pray, do not give credit to Sauron's evildoers. Does not all destiny lie in the hands of the Valar?"   


Aragorn smiles at her earnestness. "I stand corrected, Lady Ranger," he says, his thumbs softly tracing circles across the backs of her hands in his. 

  
Maranwe reaches out to touch his handsome face. "If so, then the timing was never ours to control," she says gently. They gaze at each other for long moments, with both past and future spreading before them, knowing that, at last, they have all the time they need. 

  
In the end, it is Aragorn who breaks the silence. "Gandalf spoke with you," he recalls, bringing them back into the present. 

  
Quiet joy lights Maranwe's face at the memory of her auspicious audience with the White Wizard. "He told me many things I can scarce understand," she admits in helpless wonder. "I have more questions now than ever I had before." She pauses, green eyes liquid with emotion. "Yet you are safe, and you are here, and that is all that matters in this moment." 

  
Aragorn strokes her face, as Maranwe's lips brush his palm. "My heart was broken the day I turned away from you in the stable. Now it is whole again," he opens himself to her. With infinite tenderness, he trails the back of his fingers down each side of her neck, lightly strumming the shining necklace in the hollow of Maranwe's throat. His eyes narrow, as his subconscious brings to the surface a momentary flash of metal in the morning sun. "You were wearing this, that day in Bree," he marvels. "When your cloak fell away, as you turned to leave." The fragments of memory come tumbling out.   


"Yes," Maranwe confirms softly. Her eyes grow distant with remembrance. "For some reason I cannot name, I felt a strange compulsion to put it on that morning." Slowly, she shakes her head. "I never wore it again, until those final days on the Isle. At that point, I felt that either my destiny would find me……………or my death." 

  
Aragorn nods, recognizing well the mix of fatalism and final valor that marked the sentiments of all he fought beside and held dear during the Ring War. 

  
Twisting the pendant from side to side in the soft light, Aragorn views with his own eyes the Elvish inscription. His voice breaks sadly. "Had I but seen this token once, many questions would have been answered sooner." The two lovers lock their gazes once again, imagining a reality that might have been. 

  
Eventually, Maranwe's eyes leave his face to take in Aragorn's appearance. Blinking in recognition, she smiles briefly, as the wizard's cryptic prediction returns to her. Resting her forearm on Aragorn's thigh, she reaches across his body to stroke her delicate hand up the thick hilt of Anduril, drawing her cupped fingers slowly over the rounded tip of the pommel. Aragorn finds the sensual visual more than a little distracting. 

  
"Had I but seen this sword," Maranwe murmurs, still caressing the object of her fascination, "I would have shown you my father's gift." Aragorn swallows hard, distraction growing. Maranwe's glance returns to his face. "Yet surely, according to the foretelling, the time was not ripe when first we met." 

  
Acceding her point, Aragorn dips his chin, finding speech difficult. Maranwe leans back against her pillows, watching him, her hand still resting on his thigh. The charge in the air is palpable. As his grey eyes glide ardently across her upper body, Maranwe's breathing rises and falls sharply, ever more deep with longing, for she can see what she has done to him, what he is doing to her. With a glance at the circle of _mithril_ that lies against her skin, Aragorn sensually draws his fingertips down the length of the token to where it ends just short of the rising curve of her body. A whispered exhalation of wanting leaves Maranwe's lungs. Gazing into her eyes, he gradually slips his hand under the open neckline of her gown, slowly caressing her warm breast. Maranwe drops her eyelids, releasing an eloquent moan of desire. As he leans down to kiss her parted lips, Maranwe pulls one knee up, her body rolling inward to meet him. 

  
Heady with the intensity of the moment, their passion mounts quickly until, with a supreme effort, Aragorn breaks away. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he decrees, "This cannot happen now. You are injured. You are in need of rest," he reminds them both. 

  
Maranwe looks up at him with smouldering eyes. "Are you certain, Dunadan?" she whispers, running her hand inexorably up the inside of his thigh, finding the firmness in his groin. "I have had nothing _but_ rest these past two weeks." 

  
Gently grabbing her wrist, Aragorn forcefully deposits her hand back on the pillow, bringing his face close to hers.   


"Do **_not_** misbehave," he growls in her ear, lightly smacking her bottom on the side of her upraised leg for emphasis. Then he abruptly stands, turns on his heel, and strides quickly across the room.


	19. CHAPTER NINETEEN

Maranwe blushes from head to toe at the implications of his last remark. When Aragorn spins back to face her, he can see the effect his words have had on her, and his own arousal grows undeniable. His face is a study in warring influences.

  
Wordlessly, Maranwe rolls onto her side, making room for two on the single, firm pallet. Then she pulls away the coverlet, revealing her supine body clad only in the thin, short slip. Her steady green eyes challenge him and invite him at the same time.

With a groan, Aragorn surrenders his resolve. Stepping to the door, he quickly yet quietly pulls it shut. However, there is no bolt, owing to the nature of the House. In a flash of inspiration, he takes Anduril from its sheath and angles it across the frame, through the crescent-shaped handle and behind the ornate pintle atop the lower hinge. When he turns, he sees that Maranwe has risen to her knees on the mattress, awaiting him with a look of soft-eyed delight.

Shedding his clothing as he crosses the room, Aragorn arrives beside the bed bare-chested, wearing only his supple, black buckskins. As she takes her fill of the sight before her, Maranwe can see the past ten months have been a physical strain on him. He is leaner than the last time they were together, his muscles more taut. The red weal of a fresh scar transverses the bulge of his left bicep. Her need to touch him, to have him touch her, is nearly overwhelming.

  
Using the tips of her first two fingers, Maranwe transfers a moist and tender kiss from her lips to the newly healed wound on Aragorn's arm. He reaches up, capturing her hand on its return, gently raising both her arms just long enough to draw the flimsy satin shift over her head.

  
As Aragorn drops the garment floorward, Maranwe's fingers undo the buttons at his waistband, releasing his fullness to her caresses. Her touch is like the slow spread of a flame across his skin. Locking her eyes in his torrid gaze, Aragorn slides the pants off his body, kicking them carelessly to the side.

  
Looking down at him in frank admiration, Maranwe murmurs, "You **_are_** magnificent, Dunadan." Her two hands complement each other, as she strokes him with sensual familiarity, with open enjoyment.

"I delight in you, Lady Ranger," avows Aragorn in velvet tones, as his palms claim her curves and his fingers command her passion.

  
Thus they continue for long moments, pleasuring each other, relishing each other, until Aragorn joins her, kneeling, on the bed. Pausing, he lightly touches her bandage. Even though Maranwe has tried to hide it, he can tell the shoulder bothers her. His voice is soft with solemn assurance. "I promise to be gentle."

  
Looking up at him from beneath her lashes, Maranwe suggest huskily, "Not too gentle, I hope." Smiling wickedly, he draws her body against his.

  
As he gradually lowers her in his arms to the mattress, Aragorn bends his lips to her ear. " ** _Such_** a saucy wench tonight," he whispers, sending a warm shiver up Maranwe's spine, as his hand slips teasingly between her legs.

  
To the decrescendo of a low moan, Maranwe's hips rise to meet him. As always, the feel of her diminutive feminine form against his torso, beneath his hands, stirs in him a primal passion, making him acutely aware of his own strength and masculinity.

  
In a sensual torture, Aragorn's persistent kisses now roam across every inch of her body, moving ever downwards. Maranwe becomes inflamed by his skillful caresses. Her soft utterances of pleasure fill his ears, guiding him, inspiring him. With intimate assurance, his mouth revisits places that have never lost their memory of his touch, places she has ever only offered to him. When his tongue eventually enters her, the intimacy is beyond anything Maranwe has ever known. Her body trembles beneath his lips, then explodes in tumultuous, throbbing bursts.

  
After her passion is spent, Aragorn's face returns to hers. Softly, insistently, he nuzzles her neck and ear.

"O, Aragorn," Maranwe murmurs, using his true name for the first time. The moment is not lost on either of them. In a gesture at once playful and intimate and surprisingly erotic, he brushes his nose against hers before kissing her deeply in response.

  
As the kiss ends, Maranwe glances down between them. "Shall I?" she offers, wetting her lips. There is no mistaking her meaning.

  
"Later," Aragorn responds abstractedly, intent on a deeper pleasure. Rising between her legs, he kneels back on his heels, pulling Maranwe's hips onto his thighs. Even in her satiated state, his magnificence is compelling. For the second time in as many minutes, his name is on her lips.

"O, Aragorn," she breathes appreciatively as he enters her. His strokes are swift and sure, as Maranwe wraps her legs around him, surrendering to his passion. In helpless surprise, she feels within her body the warm approach of a second peak. When, with a muted, groaning shout, Aragorn releases himself inside her, Maranwe finds herself joining him, her deep and gentle pulses matching his powerful, explosive thrusts.

 

**************************

 

Beginning his pre-dawn rounds, Master Ensore turns the corner of the hallway and does a double take. Parked neatly outside the Lady Ranger's room is a large pair of men's boots. As he draws closer, the Warden can see that they are not the fine, shining footwear of a King, but rather the humble, scuffed boots of a Ranger. He recalls the tales circulating in the City, of the King's years of anonymity spent in the North. Noting the closed door as he passes and the soft murmur of voices from within, he speculates with a smile as to the relationship between the two. It would seem there is more than one way in which the hands of the King would heal some patients.

  
Discretion, he reminds himself, continuing on his way.

 

*************************

 

It has been a nearly sleepless night for the reunited lovers. Long into the darkness they lay awake, bodies intertwined, exhausting the hours in the telling of all that has befallen them both. Maranwe hears the full tale of the War of the Ring and Frodo's Quest, of an Heir concealed in waiting and a King revealed in victory. Aragorn learns of the week Maranwe spent evading Black Riders in the wilds of the South Downs, following the raid on the Sarn Ford outpost. He listens to her account of the invasion of Mirkwood and the long battle under the trees, fought with the aid of the Elves' longtime allies, the Rangers of the North. Maranwe's journey South and the fight for Cair Andros touch Aragorn deeply, for it is this part of the story that has ultimately brought them back together.

  
The time comes when Aragorn quietly but masterfully insists on unwinding the muslin strip and examining Maranwe's shoulder. Softly, he lays his palm against the punctured flesh, then goes to the pocket of his pants where they lie in a crumpled heap beside the bed. From a tightly folded packet he produces two leaves of the rare and fragrant _athelas_. These he wets thoroughly on his tongue, carefully covering her injury with the herbal poultice before wrapping it again. Although no malady of Morgul infects the wound, this humble but powerful plant will in any case speed the healing. For Maranwe, these moments both underscore and seal her vulnerability to this man, as she meekly acquiesces to his gentle ministrations.

  
Some time in the wee hours, the two lovers drift off to sleep for a short time. But soon, the exhilarating sense of waking in each other's arms brings them both alert, wanting to cherish every moment of this night.

  
As the eastern sky begins to lighten with the first rays of dawn, Aragorn is finally compelled by his sense of duty to announce, "I must take my leave, for now, before the sun is up." He sighs, unwilling to end their embrace. "I will return as soon as the Company is ready to move."

  
Maranwe raises her head from where she lies atop him and makes a small sound of regret, pouting. Laying her hand alongside his bearded face, she begins to kiss him sensually, with purpose.

"You are trying to entice me again, Maranwe," Aragorn accuses her, but his lips do not protest, and his hands find their way willingly to the nape of her neck and the small of her back.

  
"That is correct," agrees Maranwe, her skin brushing his, as her kisses continue relentlessly. Soon they both feel the stirrings of Aragorn's response, as his body yields to her passion.

  
"The enticement seems to be effective," Maranwe observes with sly satisfaction, wriggling against him as his hand cups the curves below her waist.

  
With his resolve for a timely departure rapidly disappearing, a small groan escapes Aragorn's lips, as he warns her thickly, "You had better make this quick, Lady Ranger."

  
Using her forearm to sweep back her thick hair, Maranwe raises her face to look mischievously into his eyes. "There is little fun in **_that_** , Dunadan," she retorts in playful defiance, as her kisses move down his torso, building his anticipation. "You did say ' _later_ ", she reminds him lasciviously, as her mouth approaches its destination.

  
And so she begins to tease him with her lips and tongue, her own enjoyment obvious in the soft murmurs that rise from her throat. Periodically she pauses, assessing his reaction, prolonging his pleasure. With his desire almost out of control, Aragorn finally admonishes her, "You are torturing me, Maranwe. Must I take matters into my own hands?"

  
Maranwe smiles at him across the taut expanse of his abdomen and chest. "That could also be fun," she suggests impishly, nevertheless throwing her leg over his hip and sitting up. With a smouldering stare, Aragorn reaches for her, the slow and searing friction of his open palms titillating her breasts to a state of exquisite awareness. Maranwe teases him for a few minutes more, pleasuring herself, sliding her wetness along the outside of his shaft until she is as ready as he. When she finally takes him inside her, the sensation is intense. Maranwe's slow and deliberate grinding brings groans of gratitude from both their lips, culminating in sharp cries of explosive release.

*******************

 

Although the window in the room is small and high up, affording little in the way of natural illumination, the bustling sounds of the housecleaning staff in the hallway confirm the arrival of full daylight. Aragorn smiles ruefully at the ceiling. While he can hardly say he is sorry he stayed, there is no denying that he has been delayed and will likely find it more difficult to depart the House undetected. He reflects on Maranwe's increasingly playful sensuality during his visit. He is not so surprised by her boldness itself, as he is by the way in which it has aroused him.

Maranwe stirs contentedly in his arms. "That was exquisite, Lady Ranger," he says with deep sincerity, lightly stroking her head on his chest.

Eyes closed, Maranwe purrs lazily, "Yes, it was."

  
A devilish grin spreads across Aragorn's face, as he continues by chastising her cheerfully, "However, it does not erase the fact that you have been a most saucy wench this night." His teasing takes on an air of speculation. "Perhaps I will have to address your misbehavior at a later date."

  
Maranwe's eyelids fly open as she tries to gauge his level of intent. "Promises, promises," she scoffs flippantly, looking up and raising an eyebrow. Aragorn merely laughs, and Maranwe joins him, albeit a trifle uncertainly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: Black Riders of Mordor did attack the Ranger outpost at Sarn Ford, and the survivors were chased into the South Downs. Mirkwood was besieged in the early days of the Ring War. It is my own invention, that the Northern Dunedain might have been their allies in that fight.


	20. CHAPTER TWENTY

Maranwe can hardly breathe. The throng of people, come from all corners of the realm, surges eagerly forward, as the King’s Host halts before the makeshift barrier that defines the broken entrance to the White City. Never before has the Great Gate seen such a multitude, every man, woman, and child straining for a glimpse of the advancing Captains of the West. Hemmed in on all sides by the heads and shoulders of seemingly every tall Gondorian in the land, Maranwe is hot, frustrated, and in need of fresh air.

  
Squinting in the bright May sunrise, she casts about for a vantage point. Beside the once mighty Gate of Gondor, she spies a massive mound of rubble reaching for the sky, all that remains of one of the indomitable towers of stone that guarded the portal throughout ages past. With a determination born of necessity, Maranwe pushes her way through the press of people to the base of the heap. The climb is a bit treacherous, especially in the skirt she wears, but she quickly ascends to her place above the crowd.   
  


In hushed silence, Maranwe and all assembled watch as the chieftain of the Dunedain of Arnor and Captain of the Host of the West steps forward. He is clad in black mail girt with silver. A mantle of pure white adorns his broad shoulders, fastened with a jeweled clasp of brilliant green. Upon his forehead is a shining silver star, held in place by a gossamer filament of _mithril_. The crowd gasps in wonder to see him so clothed, even as a flicker of doubt crosses Maranwe’s eyes.

  
As the fanfare from a single trumpeter recedes across the field, all now fall silent in rapt attention. Maranwe witnesses the bittersweet moment when Faramir offers up his office to the rightful Heir of Elendil. When the Steward of Gondor puts the question to the populace, her heart swells with emotion and she raises her voice as one with the throng, acknowledging Aragorn’s claim to the kingship. In a cascade of intensifying wonder, she sees the coronation of King Elessar with the White Crown taken from the ceremonial crypt of Earnur, the last rightful ruler, to whom according to Mithrandir, her own lineage is tenuously traced. Although she has had time sufficient to ponder the things revealed to her by the wizard, it is not until this moment that the full magnitude becomes manifest to her. When Aragorn arises wearing the Crown of the Sea-Kings, Maranwe is overwhelmed. She looks around her at all the hosts of Gondor, spreading away across the Pelennor, then back to their newly-found king. The pomp, the ceremony, the very man himself seem foreign to her.

  
“Behold the King!” cries Faramir, as the blare of every trumpet in the City proclaims the return of the Heir of Numenor.

  
Turning away in confusion, Maranwe abandons her perch and hastens back through the flower-strewn streets to the Houses of Healing.

  
 

***************************

  
 

It is there that Master Ensore finds her, sitting in the garden, feeding tidbits to the fledgling falcon that he keeps while its broken wing heals. The Warden does not pretend to understand anything so volatile as love; pain and sickness seem more predictable to him. Yet he is surprised to see she has returned early from the proceedings at the Great Gate.  
  


“Will you not go to the street to see the King’s procession as it passes?” he asks in mild astonishment.  
  
 

Stroking the sleek feathers of the injured bird, Maranwe pauses, her mind clearly troubled. “I am not certain,” she says truthfully, speaking volumes beyond the answer to his simple query. She offers up another morsel to the eager avian, drawing comfort from the kinship she feels with the displaced hunter, so similarly hampered by its weakened extremity.  
  


In kindness, the Healer attempts to understand and ease her dilemma. He reaches into the folds of his jerkin. “Here is the key to the crow’s-nest. From there your view will be unobstructed.” He smiles encouragingly.

  
Maranwe gives a self-effacing laugh. “It is true, I am at somewhat of a disadvantage for viewing from within a throng of onlookers.” She rises to her feet, accepting the proffered key ring. “You are most kind.” Nodding her thanks for his dual insight, she meets his gaze with frank sincerity. “You have seen much and guessed more. Your discretion is appreciated.”

  
Ensore smiles awkwardly, averting his eyes. “Hurry now.” He takes her arm and points her towards the small door in the corner of the building. “The procession is already in the Fifth Circle.”

  
 

*******************************

  
 

The clatter of Maranwe’s footfalls on the stone steps echoes up the narrow stairway. By the time she reaches the top and rushes to the edge of the parapet, the advancing sound of music and singing heralds the approach of the celebratory street tour. Joyful people run on ahead, lining both sides of the road, waving colorful scarves and banners. Excited children dance about, scattering yet more bright spring flowers along the King’s path. Skilled troubadours, masters of the harp and the viol and the flute, round the corner with lilting song and buoyant melody. 

  
When the glad parade reaches the Street of the Healers, Aragorn halts the procession before the Houses. His eyes search the crowd anxiously, then flit from window to window of the foremost House in increasing dismay. Finally his gaze rises to the peak of the watchcorner. There on the balcony stands a small figure in black and burgundy. The look that crosses the distance between the two transcends the thousands around them. In open salute, Aragorn dips his standard. Maranwe acknowledges his gesture with a hand over her heart. Aragorn does the same.  
  


The throng falls silent, curious. All who witness the exchange wonder at the identity of this woman who has already captured the King’s eye. As the story spreads throughout the City, more than a few hopeful maidens are disappointed that day. With a last backward glance, Aragorn motions the company forward. Maranwe watches until the entire procession of people is past, turning up the incline to the Citadel Gate. Their departure leaves no one behind to see the troubled, thoughtful look on Maranwe’s face as she steps back inside the House.  
  
   

 

***************************

  
 

Above the beds of gently swaying violet blossoms, the fresh clean scent of lavender perfumes the afternoon air. The soothing fragrance drifts throughout the well-tended gardens of the Healers. Mature medicinal herbs, flowering in their spring finery, vie for attention with the rainbow of new blooms that adorn the tender, decorative annuals.

  
Beyond the cultivated plots, a lush greensward stretches away along the southern wall of the Citadel. Towering trees shade the meandering paths, creating small pockets of privacy while yet nigh to the Houses of Healing. In one such cul-de-sac, Maranwe leans with her back against the bole of an ancient willow tree. The drooping veil of olive-leaved boughs skims the surface of the unpretentious pond that nourishes the venerable wood.  
  
 

Stooping, Maranwe cups her hands and drinks of the cool, clear water, tipping the last refreshing drops across her exposed neck and shoulders, drying her hands on her clothing. Gone is the practical costume of the Rangers of Ithilien. She wears instead a burgundy, long-sleeved bodice, with a plunging scoop that accommodates and accentuates the long spike of _mithril_ that hangs from the hollow of her throat. A simple black skirt, yoked across the hips, falls in gathers to mid-calf. Only the soft Ranger boots remain the same.  
  


Settling herself between the spreading arms of the willow’s massive root system, Maranwe busies her hands stripping the foliage from a branching tendril, while her mind races reflectively. Suddenly, her reverie is pierced by the soft rhythmic thud of hooves on the packed-earth pathway.  
  
  

“I found a friend of yours among the orphans from Cair Andros,” announces the handsome, smiling man in kingly garments who approaches leading Freya.  
  
 

With a joyful gasp, Maranwe rushes up and throws her arms around the neck of her equine friend. The excited pinto nickers softly. “Where was she?” is the muffled and somewhat tearful question from the brown head buried against the black and white shoulder.   
  
 

Aragorn is touched by her emotion. “In the errand-riders’ stable,” he responds with gentle reassurance. Dropping the reins, he stands by patiently. “They above all the Men of Gondor have both an eye and a need for swift and sturdy steeds. She was well cared for there.”   
  


Several moments of silence pass, during which Maranwe’s averted face plays host to a variety of sentiments. Still she says nothing, continuing to embrace her horse, until Aragorn begins to feel slightly left out. It has, after all, been over two weeks since they were last together, and he has come with an ardent purpose in his heart. He studies Maranwe’s profile quietly, eventually chiding in a light tone, masking his dismay, “Are you not at least as glad to see me as you are Freya?”

  
Laughing with a slight edge of nervousness that Aragorn does not immediately perceive, Maranwe moves into his arms and lifts her face for some tasty kisses.

  
“ ** _That_** is the greeting I was looking for,” Aragorn whispers with tender satisfaction, nuzzling her nose with his. Leaning back to take in Maranwe’s new look, he runs a finger seductively around the deep scoop of the bodice’s neckline. “I have never seen you so attired,” he comments appraisingly, grey eyes lingering.

  
Maranwe gives a small, self-conscious murmur.  “Unfortunately, my wilderness clothing was rent and stained beyond repair.” She glances down at herself in the unfamiliar, feminine fashions. “One of the maids of this House kindly gave me these.”

  
Pulling her hips provocatively against his, Aragorn grins. “I like it,” he declares enthusiastically, voicing his approval. Yet in her body he senses, for the first time ever between them, a hesitation. Immediately, his caring eyes cloud with concern.   
  
  

“What is wrong?” he questions, gently cupping her face against his palm.  
  
 

Stepping back, Maranwe takes in the details of Aragorn’s changed attire. He wears the lordly raiment of a King, and in his new guise appears to be almost a stranger, a figure from a dream.   
  


“You are also dressed differently,” Maranwe observes quietly. Her fingertip reaches out and plays across his chest, slowly tracing the outline of the White Tree against the deep blue field of the rich vestment he wears. After a pause, she continues in a small voice, questioning, unsure, “Who is the true man?” Maranwe glances searchingly up at him, then drops her gaze, still trailing her fingers within the emblem of the Heirs of Elendil. “This King of Gondor, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur’s Heir?” Her hand falls to her side. Her eyes remain averted. Softly, wistfully, she asks, “Or Strider, the brave and mysterious Dunadan who always seemed to come to my aid when I needed him in the wild?”

  
The vehement answer is swift and sure, falling on Maranwe’s ears like velvet fire. “He is one and the same.” Aragorn tilts her chin up and looks long into her eyes, his words searing her very soul. “He is the man who has loved you since the first moment he saw you.”  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of Aragorn Elessar's coronation is taken from the books. In that text, Tolkien speaks of the Crown of Earnur being taken from a casket. Yet in the appendices, he states clearly that Earnur rode out to the Morannon and was never seen again. This seemed like a bit of a discrepancy to me. I solved it by imagining a crypt set aside for the never-recovered body of the last King, in which are kept his vestments and the tokens of his office.


	21. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Maranwe's heart threatens to stop in her chest. There is no escaping Aragorn's earnest grey gaze, as he takes both her hands in his. 

  
"Maranwe," he begins softly. "I told you once that when the Evil was past, I would find you and keep you by my side." Overwhelmed by this invocation of past promises, Maranwe drops her eyes in confusion. 

  
" _Melamin_ ," he breathes tenderly. Maranwe glances up with unconscious understanding, responding to the Elven endearment with her heart, rather than her head. "My love," Aragorn repeats, sliding his hands up behind her elbows, pulling her closer. The warmth of his body, the intensity of his presence, leave Maranwe breathless and unprepared for his next words.   


"Will you be my wife, " he entreats her softly, "and live all your days by my side?" His fingers stroke the curve of her jaw. "Will you bear my children and watch them grow, as you and I grow old together?" 

  
Maranwe takes a deep breath and a step sideways, out of his embrace. Aragorn is astonished, disheartened, to see the woman he loves turn away after his soul-baring declaration. This is not the way he envisioned this moment.   


Standing before him, her uncertainty evident in the tentative way in which she holds herself, Maranwe runs a hand distractedly over her hair, before turning her gaze back to the man who would take her as his bride. Heartfelt emotion knits her features and weaves her words together into a poignant tapestry.   


"I would live in the wild and sleep under the stars with you until the end of days," she declares in a voice husky with conviction. Her green eyes waver helplessly. "Yet I know naught of this world," she laments faintly, gesturing to the walls and the Citadel rising above them. 

  
Aragorn understands well the quandary that colours Maranwe's thinking. Quietly he asks her, "What do you fear?"   


Maranwe pauses to seek the honest answer within her. "I fear change," she offers finally. "I fear being unworthy of a new role." She hugs her waistline with one arm, sauntering aimlessly back towards the pond.   


"I fear these things also, Maranwe, more than you know," Aragorn confesses gravely. "Side by side we can meet these fears." Maranwe has found her way to the willow and now turns to face him, leaning against the sturdy tree for refuge. She says nothing, instead looking down and toying with the folds of her skirt. Aragorn takes a step closer, the determination in his heart supplanting all else.   


"I chose my place in history over my love for you once before. Now that Evil is defeated, I do not need this reward," he states resolutely. Maranwe's head snaps up. "Faramir can rule in my stead." 

  
In three quick steps, he stands before her, pleading his troth. His low voice captivates her, caresses her. "For me, the defeat of Sauron is but a bittersweet victory, if I would still lose you." Maranwe's eyes fill with emotion. Aragorn takes her hand. "I need you, Maranwe…..whether you would have me as a King or as a Ranger." 

  
"You would abdicate your throne?" breathes Maranwe in disbelief. 

  
"I would," Aragorn answers steadily. 

  
Maranwe spins her back to him, declaring forcefully, "I will **_never_** ask that of you." 

  
"Nevertheless, I would," asserts Aragorn gently.   


There is a long pause, unbroken by a response of any kind from Maranwe. As the seconds slip by, Aragorn entertains the beginnings of despair. The planes of his handsome face crumble in uncertainty. 

  
"Do you not love me, Maranwe?" he asks finally, suddenly unsure of the answer. His hand reaches longingly for the back of her head, then stops short, fingertips curling in emptiness. He repeats one last time, "Do you not love me?" 

  
And in that moment, Aragorn's question lays bare Maranwe's soul, bringing an ultimate clarity that dispels all fear and hesitation. Her eyes close briefly. Then she is falling back against him, reaching up with one arm to encircle his neck.   


"With all my heart," breathes Maranwe fervently, surrendering to the truth that lies within her, melting into him as his lips find hers. Between Aragorn's ardent kisses, she reiterates his entreaties. "Yes, I will be your wife, both King and Ranger. Yes, I will live all my days by your side." As Aragorn scoops her up in his arms, the slow and steady rush of their passion carries them to the ground. "Yes, I will bear your children," Maranwe promises, her eyes searching his face intimately.   


They cling to each other, suspended in that instant between desire and something more profound. Spirit, soul, and senses coalesce, creating a moment of consummate synergy beyond the physical. Then Maranwe closes her eyes as Aragorn's lips softly meet hers, sealing their pledge of love.   


In the quiet cocoon beneath the willow fronds, the two lovers soon become lost in the pure passion that burns between them. They taste each other with tender, teasing kisses, even as their bodies chafe to be free of the garments that constrict them.   


With his palms brushing her breasts through the lightweight fabric, Aragorn slowly yet determinedly begins to undo the eyelets of Maranwe's bodice. Somehow the faint voice of practical awareness seeps through the rising tide of Maranwe's abandon. "Should we not go back to my room?" she whispers with little conviction, her moist lips tickling his earlobe.   


Aragorn scowls with impatience, feeling the constraints that the demands and decorum of his new office impose. "If I return to the Houses of Healing, Master Ensore will be waiting to weary me with a thousand queries," he predicts vexedly.   


With a sigh, Maranwe sits up, hand pausing atop her head as she pushes her thick hair back in frustration. Looking past Aragorn's shoulder, her green eyes quickly light with mischief, as inspiration dawns. Aragorn raises one eyebrow interrogatively. 

  
"The spreading roots of this willow would make a mighty throne for the newly-crowned King," she suggests in tones tinged with provocative impudence, tipping her chin towards the natural basin formed at the tree's base. With a rakish grin, Aragorn willingly moves into place. "And I know one advantage that the wearing of skirts can afford," declares Maranwe calculatingly, as she drapes herself and her clothing across Aragorn's thighs.   


They kiss hungrily, as Aragorn slides his strong hands up the back of Maranwe's muscular legs, filling his palms with her curves, drawing her firmly onto his lap. Beneath the folds of fabric that conceal them, Maranwe's fingers find and unfasten the first few buttons of his waistband, exposing him just enough to wet his head with her sensual squirming.   


Picking up where he left off, Aragorn one-by-one slips the stays of Maranwe's upper garment. His teeth gently nibble her neck, as his cupped palms slide inside her bodice, finally freeing her breasts to his attentions.   


"Your breasts delight me," Aragorn murmurs, his insistent lips savoring her skin with relish. 

  
Maranwe inhales sharply at his initial touch, then exhales with a sigh. From behind half-closed eyes, her candid sense of humor compels her to observe, "Then your tastes defy those of other men." 

  
Switching sides, Aragorn returns distractedly, "The tastes of other men do not concern me." Then he thinks again. "What other men?" he asks, pausing and looking up with suspicious interest. 

  
Maranwe smiles at the look on his face, pushing his dark hair aside to plant a kiss on the rise of his cheekbone. "None other in nearly two years," she whispers the assurance in his ear. Aragorn's mouth meets hers, before Maranwe continues in clarification, "I merely meant that I have always been given to understand the male preference to be summed up in the adage: The bigger, the better."   


Suppressing a wry smile, Aragorn takes the time to choose his words carefully, while his eyes and his fingertips stray back in fascination to the inspiration for their discussion. 

  
"While I do not deny that a large bosom catches my eye," he admits, true to his gender, "I find yours much more compelling." The way he is looking at her body leaves no room to doubt his words.   


"Two round and delectable morsels," he declares softly, his lips lingering to taste first one, then the other. Maranwe moans low in her throat, wriggling herself pleasurably against his lap. 

  
"And these enormous nipples," Aragorn continues with lecherous license, "are **_most_** mouth-watering." As he proceeds to demonstrate his words, his hands slide down to grasp Maranwe's rolling hips through the smooth, fitted fabric that encircles them. Her delicate hands find their way inside his collar, the strong muscles of his neck and shoulders under her fingers a tactile delight. Soon their only awareness is of the spots of warmth where their bodies are touching. Thus the moments drift by, as Maranwe's soft murmurs of helpless pleasure grace the stillness beside the pond.   


At the point when their play becomes most torturous, Aragorn ceases with a groan. Sliding his hands under Maranwe's skirt, he gently moves her back, pacing them both. Maranwe shudders delicately with blunted release.   


After a trembling pause, there is a muted rustle of clothing. Maranwe rises briefly to her knees, as Aragorn wiggles his trousers down his thighs. Then his hands are guiding her atop his unseen fullness. Interlacing her fingers behind Aragorn's neck, Maranwe arches her back in ecstasy and moans at the moment of penetration. Their bodies slide together, slowly at first, then with mounting urgency.   


Suddenly Aragorn pulls Maranwe hard against him, teasing her and intensifying her pleasure with his thumb. Maranwe gives a protracted moan and throws back her head, as the final cresting surge of heat overtakes her. With Aragorn's capable hands still cupping her rotating hips, Maranwe's strong thighs drive their bodies together relentlessly, riding the waves of her passion, triggering the explosion of his. 

 

***************************** 

  
With passion spent, Maranwe eventually looks down and experiences a flash of self-consciousness over her degree of dishevelment. A lopsided grin twists across her countenance, as she covers herself and works her way back up the row of eyelets. Aragorn however, slips the garment off her shoulder. Gently, he moves aside the mane of her hair to gaze at her now-unbandaged wound.   


"You are not helping," Maranwe points out teasingly.   


Aragorn smiles, eyes intent on his exam. He is pleased to see how well the injury is mending. The skin is only slightly puckered, the discoloration minimal. What remains of the small crust that covers the puncture as it closes will be shed soon. The edges are clean and dry.   


"What potion of the Isle of Long Ships is responsible for such gentle healing?" he asks curiously, stroking the new skin.   


"Potion!" Maranwe laughs at his word choice. 

  
Aragorn nods, her humor reflected in his eyes. "The leaf of _kingsfoil_ heals that which is within," he makes the distinction. "To carry nary a mark from such a wound is the work of another art." 

  
Inclining her head, Maranwe allows, "Perhaps it is the art born of woman's vanity. A simple balm of wool fat and Oil of Everlast keeps the skin supple and virtually unmarred after an injury." The smile she tenders is half-challenging, half-sheepish.   


"Quite supple indeed," murmurs Aragorn, his lips applying a balm of their own, soon straying to her breasts for a farewell kiss. "This has only been the first course, my love," he vows with quiet intimacy, as he re-fastens her clothing. Maranwe responds with an unintelligible murmur of anticipation. "I promise you," Aragorn continues, grey eyes deep with sensual suggestion, "I shall return to your room later and ravish you properly till morning light." 

 

********************** 

 

Hours later, drifting in languid contentment, the two lovers lie together, Maranwe's delicate form stretched out along Aragorn's side. He has been true to his word, indulging them both with measured intervals of skillful and enthusiastic lovemaking, leaving Maranwe with the sweet sensitivity that will remind her long afterwards of their passion. Their desire has slumbered briefly while they dreamt in each other's arms. Now as they float on the edge of wakefulness, their deep and abiding delight in the warmth of their embrace is apparent.   
  
 

"All the months apart," Aragorn recalls wistfully. "How I missed holding your body against mine." His lips brush Maranwe's forehead, as his hand sensually caresses her from shoulder to thigh. 

  
"M-m-m-m-m," breathes Maranwe, once again growing heady with the sensation of his touch, curling her leg across his and pressing herself closer. Her soft breath tickles Aragorn's neck as she imparts dreamily, "How I missed your caresses that drive me wild." Aragorn smoothes her hair and kisses the tip of Maranwe's nose. Shifting slightly to the side and sliding her eyes and her hand down his torso, Maranwe whispers against Aragorn's chest, "How I missed your magnificent manhood that fills me with such ecstasy." Playfully, she toys with him, never tiring of the intimacies of his body.   


Aragorn runs his hand up her spine and under the fall of her hair, splaying his fingers across the back of Maranwe's head. "If you keep that up," he growls after a few moments, "I will be filling you with ecstasy very soon." 

  
Maranwe gives a delighted murmur, making no move to cease her ministrations. His gradually growing response is sure, and the sight of it awakens her desire in earnest. With Aragorn's eyes upon her, she eventually slips lower along his prone form, cupping her breast against the base of him, wrapping her warm lips around the head. Aragorn emits a low groan and slams his fist, straight-armed, into the mattress. 

  
After a few minutes, he urgently pulls her face up to his for a long kiss. Then he roughly rolls Maranwe onto her back, interlocking their fingers and pulling her arms above her head.   


" ** _Must_** you be such an enticing little vixen," he complains teasingly, pinning her hips with his as she wriggles beneath him.   


Eyes closed, head tilted back in surrender, Maranwe counters in a throaty voice, "I thought you were the one enticing me." 

  
  
Aragorn's response is a salacious chuckle, as he whispers in her ear, "Then let us agree to entice each other."   


In a move perfected between them by practice, he begins by sliding his length along the outside of her, across the spot wet with her desire and the remnants of their earlier lovemaking. Maranwe moans, her hips rising impatiently to try to capture him. Yet he makes her wait, as always enthralled and empowered by the sight of her passion. Eventually he pulls back, teasing her with the tip, peppering her mouth with quick kisses. Maranwe struggles gently to free her hands, wanting to pull him into her, but he holds her fast. The only sound is the mounting rise and fall of their fervid breathing. 

  
Inevitably, the moment arrives when the tension for both is beyond bearable. As the final flush courses through her body like wildfire, Maranwe cries out "O, my love….." Immediately releasing her hands and enfolding her head between his forearms, Aragorn fills her with thrust after powerful thrust, until the fury of their combined desire is spent.   


As their throbbing passion dies away to a dull ache, Maranwe's soft little murmurs of post-coital satisfaction punctuate the air and please Aragorn's ears.   


"You are an insatiable wench, Lady Ranger," he declares with intimate approval, smiling tenderly.   


Opening her eyes, Maranwe returns his smile, pointing out sweetly, succinctly, "In truth, I detected no waning of _your_ readiness or willingness either, Dunadan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lanolin and Oil of Everlast is a concoction that I found mentioned as a salve to prevent scarring. I have no idea if it works.


	22. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Eyes wide, hands covering their explosive giggles, the two kitchen maids enroute to their early morning duties glance knowingly at the window of the small cottage. The colourful marigold garlands that dangle across the opening may discourage insects from entering, but they do nothing to deny sound from exiting. 

  
It is some weeks after Coronation Day. The initial demands on the new King's time have been myriad: days spent rendering fair and wise judgments upon all matters of the realm reunited; hours passed in audience with emissaries from many lands and peoples; evenings often taken up with the camaraderie of his seven closest companions. Their delight in meeting the woman who has claimed Aragorn's heart is equaled only by Maranwe's own pleasure upon coming to know those who shared his perilous road, and surely on occasion kept from harm the man she loves.   


In a nominal nod to propriety, Maranwe continues to reside at the Houses of Healing. She has moved into one of the small cottages reserved for the Healers themselves, located deep within the Gardens. Despite the two lovers' attempts at circumspection, it is an open secret that King Elessar is a frequent overnight visitor at the last House on the left. In fact, there is a brisk business of wagering among the Healers and their staff, as to the exact date of the anticipated marriage and birth of the first heir.   


Now, as the sounds of masculine groans and feminine sighs drift into the dawn, the two passers-by reconsider their wagers. 

 

******************** 

 

The shoulder seems nearly whole, rolling smoothly in its socket, rotating across a wide range of motion. Strong muscles, radiating out and downward, pump rhythmically, only slightly tremulous after their prolonged inactivity. Each beat propels the winged hunter higher above the Healers' Gardens. Suddenly he trims his wings and drops into a dive, tossing a shrill cry of sheer freedom into the air that streams past him. 

  
Following the raptor's flight to its landing point, Eowyn's eyes come to rest on a lanternpost overhanging a humble crossroads, one of the many junctures linking the intricate network of footpaths that traverse the peaceful grounds. Below the peregrine's perch, another recuperating wanderer is using the upright as a counterweight to stretch her still-stiff shoulder, striving, as she does daily, to regain her mobility. Maranwe pauses in her repetitions to glance up with critical approval at the keen-eyed sentinel. "I see you have mended well, my friend," she murmurs softly. 

  
"What is his name?" a bright voice inquires on her left. Maranwe turns to find a fair and beautiful woman, adorned with flowing golden hair, attired in fine brocade and white silk.   


"Since we do not share a common language, I do not know," replies Maranwe after a moment, her respect for the natural world evident in her tone. "In my thoughts, I call him Hermod."   


Eowyn nods in understanding, the equivalent in the Westron springing to her lips. "Winged Messenger." 

  
They both raise their eyes to the sleek, slate-grey bird, who silently, effortlessly, takes flight across the treetops once again. "Would that my own recovery is as complete as that of the falcon with the once-broken wing," Maranwe wishes aloud, wincing slightly as she raises her bent arm as high as she dares.   


Eowyn has realized from the beginning with whom she is speaking. Now she says warmly, "We have not met. I am Eowyn." 

  
Inclining her head, Maranwe acknowledges that which she has already suspected. "The Lady of Rohan." Their eyes lock in frank assessment. "Word of your praiseworthy deeds precedes you." 

  
"Eowyn," her new companion insists, smiling. 

  
The smile is returned, along with an equally simple introduction. I am Maranwe……of Ithilien." 

  
"And lately of the King's high favor, if the Citadel gossip is to be believed," suggests Eowyn archly, even as a delicate pink creeps up beneath the faint dusting of freckles to belie the boldness of her observation. 

  
With a bemused exhalation and a wry twist of the mouth, Maranwe turns aside and strolls a short ways down the path, lingering at one end of a low, wooden bench. She shakes her head, venting a faintly cynical laugh. "I suppose it was folly to think that people would not take notice." After a pause, knowing that Aragorn plans to announce their nuptials on the morrow, she concedes pragmatically, "And the entire realm will know soon enough." In a gesture unconsciously symbolic of the uncovering of their romance, Maranwe bends to brush winter's dried leaves from the seatbank, exposing the cool slats to the warmth of the late May sun. 

  
Drawing closer, Eowyn cannot keep the inquisitive wonder from her voice, as she sets out her thoughts with eager sincerity, "They say your union was foretold of old. You wear his token." Maranwe glances up questioningly. "I recognize the sword," supplies Eowyn a shade too quickly. She rushes on, "How did you find each other? When did you meet?" 

  
Maranwe gazes appraisingly into the wide brown eyes of the Lady of Rohan. There she perceives an interest beyond idle curiosity. Nevertheless, she answers the query with as much honesty as she can muster. "We met on a battlefield in Eriador two years past. And once again a year later at a roadhouse on the East-West Road. In truth, he saved my life at our first meeting," confides Maranwe softly. 

  
The passing reference to a warrior's existence does not fall casually upon Eowyn's ears. She sighs, confessing quietly, "There is much I envy in the life you have led." Then dismay clouds her eyes, as her mind is drawn back to the question at hand. "That is all? Twice?" Her voice falls away in disbelief. Maranwe nods once. "Yet if you met two years ago, why did you part?" Eowyn asks uncomprehendingly. 

  
In her mind's eye, Maranwe skims the memory of misbegotten months, in the end couching the pain of those lost days in unadorned answer. "There were things that neither of us understood at that time." A beat goes by, before she continues with quiet resolution, "Nor would I stand in the way of his destiny….. and the greater good of Gondor." 

  
While Maranwe moves round to take a seat on the bench, Eowyn recalls with dawning self-reproach her own attempts to dissuade the Ranger from the more dangerous turnings of his path. After a moment, Eowyn joins Maranwe on the outdoor settee. Nodding slowly, she remarks with a touch of residual wistfulness, "I can see why the Lord Aragorn's thoughts were ever turned elsewhere." 

  
A look of awareness passes between the two women, before the Shieldmaiden of Rohan broaches a new subject, an idea drawing upon their common avocation. 

  
"When we are both again sound of body, perhaps we might train at swords together," Eowyn suggest hopefully, extending an overture of friendship.   


"Perhaps," answers Maranwe cautiously, still mulling over the undercurrents of their conversation. 

  
Suddenly Eowyn's eyes light with delight, as they fall on a point behind Maranwe's back. "Faramir…!" the Lady of Rohan exclaims demurely, rising to her feet. A familiar figure brushes past Maranwe to embrace Eowyn with ardor, before politely expanding his awareness. 

  
"I see the two of you have met," the Prince of Ithilien observes with gentle approval, turning to Maranwe.   


There is a moment of silent study between them. Much has passed through both their lives in the intervening months since the Window on the West curtained their last conversation. To Maranwe, it seems the erstwhile Captain of Gondor has grown in nobility of presence, exuding a quality of character previously veiled. With nothing left to prove, to himself or anyone else, his soft brown eyes are finally at peace. With Eowyn at his side, his joy is unmistakably complete.   


In Maranwe, the changes are also discernable to Faramir's sensitive eye. Gone is her edge of restlessness. In its place are a contentment and a confidence, born of a heart made whole, a life made full. 

  
"I see you have found what you sought," Faramir says quietly.   


The gradual play of gladness across Maranwe's features settles, shining, into her green-flecked eyes, as the truth of Faramir's observation comes home to her. 

  
"Indeed," she responds richly. 

 

************************* 

 

"That was exquisite, Lady Ranger," remarks Aragorn expansively, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, more in the manner of a Ranger than a King. 

  
Maranwe whips her head around from where she is clearing the dishes. In this case, he is obviously referring to the meal she has just served. Yet she wonders whether he remembers the last circumstances in which he uttered those words.   


The slow grin that spreads across his face answers her question. "Perhaps I should re-phrase that," he amends diplomatically, tongue-in-cheek. "That was _nearly_ exquisite." 

  
"Well said, Dunadan," responds Maranwe, eyes dancing, adding in a cautionary tone, "There is only one thing to which you best mark my cooking second."   


Aragorn chuckles from his place on the couch. "To that, there is **_no_** comparison," he declares salaciously, patting his knee in invitation. 

  
Although the enticement is difficult to resist, Maranwe turns her back, instead puttering with the cutlery, a sick and secret apprehension gnawing at her heart. Her conversation with the Lady of Rohan has weighed heavily on her mind all day, leaving in its wake a number of disquieting questions that her intuition will not allow her to ignore.   


Simply because she herself took no other man to her bed in the months after their parting in Bree, she has no reason to expect the handsome Ranger was likewise alone. Indeed, she cannot imagine a man less likely to lack for female companionship, were he to desire it. Yet she must know the answer, if for no other reason than the fact that Eowyn will be nigh at hand in their new life.   


Her internal debate is interrupted by a low and somewhat petulant voice from across the room. "Come….are there no sweets at the end of this meal?" She turns to find Aragorn fixing her with a look of smouldering expectation. She takes a deep breath.   


"I believe I met a friend of yours today," she opens with exaggerated nonchalance, pausing to straighten the chairs. "The Lady of Rohan," --Maranwe looks up quickly-- "Eowyn."   


Aragorn holds her gaze, relieved yet somewhat rueful that the two have met, for he has foreseen and dreaded this conversation. "She is a friend, yes," he answers evenly. 

  
Wiping her hands on a towel, Maranwe continues, "She seemed quite" --pausing in her search for the right phrase-" 'fond' of you." Maranwe tosses the linen onto the table and crosses the room towards him. 

  
Aragorn sighs, admitting, "We shared the bond of tumultuous times." 

  
Maranwe feels the sharp stab of jealousy halt her steps. Biting her lip, she ventures softly, 'What are your feelings for her?" 

  
Aragorn's guileless grey eyes do not waver from hers. "The affection I have for Eowyn is that of a brother towards a sister." 

  
Several moments go by, while Maranwe considers his response. Her eventual question bores unerringly to the heart of the matter. "Why did I have the impression that she once wished for more than that?"   
  
 

Aragorn sighs a second time, hoping he can make her understand. "Emotions run high in the heat of battle, Maranwe. You know this," he points out quietly. "There was a time when the Lady Eowyn thought she saw in me the fulfillment of all her hopes." A flicker of empathy stirs in Maranwe. A spark of pathos tinges Aragorn's words. "Yet, in truth, she did not know her own heart aright." 

  
Maranwe takes a step closer to where he is seated. "And you?" She holds her breath.   


Shaking his head helplessly, Aragorn reaches out to pull her onto his lap. "I was unable to forget a certain Lady Ranger I once held in my arms," he declares, his voice deep with finality. Maranwe's eyelids drop, a physical response to the intensity of his words and the relief that swells within her at their utterance. Surrendering wholly to his embrace, Maranwe murmurs low in her throat, as Aragorn's lips meet hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the marigold garlands used at an historical re-enactment village and archaeological site of the earliest English settlements in the New World. Inspiration is everywhere.


	23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

In the spirit of celebration be it announced:

At midday, on Mid-year's Day,

In the Courtyard of the Kings,

In the Citadel of the White City,

Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor,

Shall take as his bride Maranwe Virenelle, Ranger of Ithilien.

_'In the day when the Heir of Isildur returns_

_And takes to himself the Rose of Ithilien,_

_The two sundered lines shall be reunited_

_And thus shall the Days of the King come to pass'._

Shifting the colourful basket of fresh produce to her other forearm, Maranwe steps closer to the small group of women gathered before the newly-unfurled banner. An identical announcement is posted at each of the seven gates of the tiered City, a public declaration inviting participation, satisfying speculation, fueling anticipation. The words leap off the vellum and into her heart.   


Presently, the youngest of the three women turns to the matron beside her and sighs. "A pity, is it not, that the comely King is no more for the having?" 

  
Maranwe glances over, stifling a smile. 

  
The older woman laughs. "Do not lose heart, daughter. You will find a suitable husband. Mark how well your sister has done." She turns to include the third woman in her smiling gaze. "A goodly man is Beregond, and now Captain of the White Company, no less." Across her married daughter's face, the initial flash of long-suffering self-consciousness swiftly softens to a wife's quiet pride.   


Yet despite this maternal encouragement and sibling inspiration, the maiden looks at turns dubious and impatient regarding her own chances for matrimony. Smiling indulgently, her older sister attempts to cheer her, hugging the younger woman by the shoulders and confiding with conspiratorial optimism, "Heed, Little One, have you not seen King Elessar's kinsmen from the North?" A look of interest slides her way. "There is more than one fine figure of manhood among the Dunedain."   


This suggestion succeeds in brightening the disheartened daughter's demeanor considerably. In one of youth's inexplicable mood swings, she next looks down at her humble frock and wonders in sudden sartorial practicality, "Then what shall I wear to the festivities, Mother?"   


Linking arms with both her offspring, the greying woman leads their way through the arched portal. "Come, my dear," she invites in nurturing tones. "I will fashion for you a dress never to be surpassed in beauty, save by the one that I shall make you for your own wedding day." 

  
Watching the departing trio, Maranwe chokes back the sudden lump in her throat. There are times in life, both high points and low, when no matter her age, a daughter longs for her mother-and this is one. Maranwe has lately found the maturity to better understand her mother's choices, however flawed in application, and accept the years of sheltering secrecy as the layers of love they were. She wishes now only to have had the chance to tell her mother so, and to share with her these joyous times. How Anorwen's heart would have been stilled and fulfilled, to see the fruition of all she fought so fiercely to protect and ensure.   


Maranwe saunters slowly home, marshalling her emotions as she picks her way anonymously through the busy streets. Not surprisingly, her thoughts turn to the ceremony ahead and her role in it. She wonders whether she will ever truly feel the part of a Queen as fully as she has embraced that of Courtesan. In any case, she knows the freedom she enjoys is about to change, and being by nature a private and independent person, there are times when the trepidation she harbors is nearly paralyzing. Yet she must trust the man she loves to shield her from undue attention and to vouchsafe their private moments. 

  
The golden sun is riding high in a sky dancing with unsettled clouds, when Maranwe's footsteps finally approach the last cottage on the left. Suddenly she stops, as a sharp THWACK! sounds from behind the house. Through the gap between the lilac bushes and a corner of the building, Maranwe spies movement in the back garden, and quietly moves into the slot to investigate. There she is rewarded by a most welcome and engaging sight. 

  
Oblivious to both her arrival and to the day's humidity, Aragorn is industriously attacking the woodpile, splitting each odd piece of deadfall into manageable sections for the hearth. He has obviously been working for some time, as evidenced by the untidy collection of already-cut firewood strewn about, and by the fact that he has stripped off his shirt in an effort to cool his sweat-streaked body. Perspiration has trickled down his torso, darkening a yoke along the seams of his pants, accentuating his form in a most thought-provoking way. With vague disapproval, Maranwe notes that he is also barefoot, to her mind a dangerous proposition while wielding an axe. Yet as she watches him at his labors, any annoyance she feels is quickly forgotten, lost in the deeply distracting and purely carnal effects of his physicality. Without declaring her presence, Maranwe leans up against the outer wall of the cottage, slowly devouring his muscular body with her eyes, in no hurry, for the time being, to interrupt him. 

  
Eventually pausing to push a wet strand of hair off his cheek, Aragorn spots his voyeuristic audience out of the corner of his eye.   
  
"How long have you been standing there?" he asks in surprise, turning to face Maranwe, dropping the axe to plant its head squarely on the ground between his widely spaced feet. With easy masculine grace, he leans on the thick handle rising evocatively before his pelvis.   


Maranwe makes no attempt to keep her eyes on Aragorn's face, as she savors the tantalizing scene before her and the heated tension building within her. "Long enough," she responds with an enigmatic smile. "Do you fear a cold night?" The innocent-seeming question hangs provocatively in the warm air.   


Aragorn laughs, stooping to upend the last rough piece of wood onto his chopping surface. "To be truthful, I enjoy the physical work." With one rolling swing of his shoulders, he sends two splintered halves thudding in opposite directions. "Even so," he elaborates judiciously, "the departing sentinels from Amon Din in fact tell of a cool wind from the North, and a low storm traveling slowly across Anorien." Releasing the blade where it has struck, he glances inadvertently overhead. 

  
At the moment, however, Maranwe has little interest in a weather report. "So, are you finished?" she presses pointedly, strolling over and hanging her basket on the handle of the imbedded axe.   


Gesturing to the jumbled heaps on the ground, an unwitting Aragorn replies with diligence, "The wood should be stacked." 

  
Distractedly, Maranwe watches as a drop of sweat threads its way down the center of his chest. "I will help you stack the wood……later," she murmurs, the earthy scent of him filling her senses.   


Still not catching her mood, Aragorn rests his thumbs in his waistband and looks at her in perplexity. His stance only serves to rivet Maranwe's already libidinous attention on the region between his hands, even as he wonders aloud at her lassitude. "Later?"   


Reaching out to intercept the descending drop as it reaches his navel, Maranwe curls her fingertips into the front of Aragorn's pants, leaning into him as she stands on tiptoe and pulls him closer.   


" ** _Much_** later," she reiterates huskily, her mouth warm and wanton against his. 

  
Aragorn returns her kiss with gusto, intensely aroused by the sudden realization, forceful as a battering ram, of her purpose. His blood surges in response to her beckoning, as Maranwe breaks off and steps backwards, leading him slowly by his button front in the direction of the door. From beneath her lashes, her gaze is openly erotic, enticing him as much as the fingertips twisted within his waistband. As she pulls him with her, Maranwe uses her other hand to free the buttons that enclose her breasts. 

  
At the point when her shoulders touch the closed barrier, Aragorn suddenly squares his forearms against the doorframe, refusing to be led any further. Pinning her hard between his body and the wooden panel, he wrests control with one searing look. Then he levers the handle and pulls Maranwe inside the bedroom.   


Between insistent meetings of the lips, their fingers make a frenzied assault on each other's buttons. Aragorn finishes first, and Maranwe's skirt drops to the floor. The sudden sight of her in nothing but her half-open camisole and her tall, soft boots only serves to enhance his arousal. Their kisses are alternately tender and fierce, as he forces her with his overriding strength to the edge of the bed. There she reciprocates the favor, slowing briefly to appreciate the unveiling when she peels the supple breeches from his waist.   Seeing Maranwe's face slip southwards, Aragorn reflexively engulfs her head and hair in his long-fingered hands. What follows leaves him sorely titillated. 

  
Balancing on her strong limbs and embracing the back of his thighs for support, Maranwe gently suckles the twin purses that contain the seeds of his manhood, then teasingly trails her tongue from base to ramrod tip. The masculine, slightly metallic taste of his skin fills her senses, as she continues up the dark, downy path below his navel and across the hard hollow of his abdomen, all the way to the center of his chest; once there, tipping her head back and opening her mouth to receive a bruising kiss.   


Aragorn's eager hands move to her hips, caressing her bare skin hungrily, testing her heat, before reaching between them and suddenly peeling open Maranwe's already-loosened bodice. With a jerk, he rolls the garment back off her shoulders, partially pinioning her arms. Maranwe gasps in surprise, then moans helplessly as he firmly pushes her onto the bed, her own raging desire dangerously heightened by the determination of his passion. 

  
He claims each breast to the point of excruciating pleasure, with Maranwe writhing beneath him, murmuring his name. They are heedless of the open door, as their urgency feeds upon itself. Their bodies come together roughly, rolling with abandon, Maranwe's hips rising from the mattress to meet his every thrust. Her grasping fingers slip on his sweat-slick back, her peaked nipples rub against his moist and sticky ribcage. Aragorn's pounding fury brings a protest, though only from the ancient bedframe. His partner cries out for more, clutching his buttocks, and he delivers, slamming them both with blinding, breathless speed over the heart-stopping threshold of release, shattering mind and body in one prolonged, pulsating moment. 

 

************************** 

 

Not so very much later after all, with white-hot passion dissipated to a warm glow, the two lie together unselfconsciously in varying degrees of undress. Bathed in the wash of exquisite relaxation that envelops him, Aragorn breathes deeply. "To what do I owe the pleasure of that seduction?" he muses happily on his good fortune, unexpected delight still evident in his tone. 

  
Maranwe laughs richly in the crook of his arm. "You appeared very" --stroking his chest, she luxuriates in the memory- " 'vigorous' while chopping wood," she admits euphemistically, her voice low with the lingering vestiges of lust. 

  
Aragorn smiles from behind closed eyes, enjoying the play of her fingers across his skin. "If that is the case," he declares with feeling, "then the Halls of the Citadel shall never lack for ready firewood, so long as we both there abide."   


Maranwe thrills to his ever ardent vision of their life together, even as the incongruous picture of her current self in those Great Halls brings to mind a practical concern, one poignantly pushed to the forefront by the morning's chance encounter. The question is tentative as it leaves her mouth. "Tell me, does the new King have at his bidding the services of a seamstress?" 

  
"There is someone, yes. You have need of a seamstress?" Aragorn queries lazily, his thoughts still on their erotic interlude. "A prudent idea," he decides after a moment. His leap of reasoning is purely male. "I have never **_yet_** ripped your clothes off," -he rolls on his side to grin at her wickedly, eyes straying to her half-exposed breasts-"though I have been sorely tempted," he muses aloud, thinking how close he came this very afternoon.   


"The feeling is often mutual, Dunadan." Maranwe's whispered revelation is accompanied by an intimate smile, as she cups his bearded chin and pulls his line of sight back to her face. Their lips meet and linger, a promise understood by both.   


With a belated effort, Aragorn briefly forces his attention away from the carnal to consider her query seriously. "I am a thoughtless boor," he laments after a moment. Quickly, Maranwe shakes her head, her brow furrowing in earnest denial. "Of course you desire some clothing other than these cast-offs." He voices the realization apologetically, plucking at the sleeve of her bodice. 

  
Maranwe kisses him gently. "You are not thoughtless," she assures him. "Yet 'tis true, I have no gown in which to marry a King." Her gaze strays shyly sideways. "Indeed, I have no gowns at all." 

  
Aragorn's heart swells with his love for this unassuming, down-to-earth woman. "You shall have the finest of wedding gowns, one that befits your true heritage," he vows quietly, the perfect solution already in mind. Maranwe rolls her eyes in mock reticence, but Aragorn brings his forehead against hers, finishing sternly, "….whether you will or nay." Eyes so wide her lashes brush her bangs, Maranwe nods imperceptibly, and their lips meet once again. 

  
After the kiss comes to a teasing close, Aragorn looks indolently down her body, slowly stroking his hand up her naked thigh and hip. "Now, Lady Ranger," he reminds her in a flirtatious half-jest, "shall we tend to that wood?" 

  
Biting her tongue to restrain the bad pun that threatens to escape, Maranwe sits up with a small smile. "The afternoon is young, Dunadan," she declares instead, slowly releasing the remaining buttons of her bodice and dropping it to the floor. "And I am not yet finished with you," she announces impishly, as she swings one booted leg around and straddles him, facing away. When she bends forward to slip his pants completely off, the low groan from his throat is not the only thing that rises from Aragorn's body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am far from a scholar of Elvish, but I have spent a little time with a glossary and grammar site. "Virenelle" should mean "little rose".


	24. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"And what would you do?" Maranwe issues the challenge almost bitterly. "Parade your common little Ranger as your Consort, before a company of your high and mighty friends? How quaint," she finishes sarcastically.

It is a mere two weeks before their wedding day, and the escalating expectations are beginning to wear on Maranwe's nerves. The swirl of never-ending details and countless, bewildering formalities gives her a headache. So much of the ceremony and celebration will be steeped in tradition and wrapped in ritual; Maranwe secretly fears that the simple love between a man and a woman will be overshadowed. And despite Aragorn's reassuring promises, she seems no closer today than she was two weeks ago to having a wedding gown. She feels insignificant and overwhelmed. Adding to her foul mood are the tides of her own womanhood, the ebb before the flow, leaving her emotions brittle and her tongue sharp.

Aragorn has just announced his intention to bring a special guest to sup with them on the morrow, someone highly revered among his own People. Yet this visitor's identity seems destined to remain a surprise, as Aragorn cheerfully refuses to elaborate on the matter. His air of mysterious aplomb only serves to annoy Maranwe. She has tried various excuses: first, that she is tired; second, that she has nothing suitable to wear; third, that she does not wish to cook on such short notice.

When Aragorn good-naturedly resolves to have the meal brought in from the Citadel kitchens, and continues to ceaselessly cajole her while seemingly oblivious to the pointed hint regarding her wardrobe, Maranwe's sudden, frustrated outburst is the only thing that finally silences him. In its wake, the moments tick by. Maranwe watches the storm clouds form in Aragorn's face, and she turns away, knowing she has hurt him.

 

When he speaks again, his voice is cold. "I am every bit the Ranger you are, Maranwe, and no more or less common. By insulting yourself in that manner, you insult me." Maranwe closes her eyes, already wishing she could take back the rash words, yet in that moment pride stays her tongue.

 

Disappointment mingles with anger, as Aragorn continues curtly, "If you would only trust me, my love, you would find tomorrow to be a most welcome day of meeting." Swiveling on his heel, he stiffly departs, jaw clenched. The slamming of the cottage door is like a thunderclap, making Maranwe jump.

 

*******************************

 

How many hours have passed, Maranwe is not certain. She lies in bed, ruefully facing the likelihood that Aragorn is not returning that evening, wondering where he might have gone for the night. She thinks it most probable that he is either with the Hobbits, or with the Wizard. Briefly she considers swallowing her pride and finding her way to those fair houses. Would he receive her openly, hear her apology? And what would she say? As she sees again within her mind the aggrieved look on Aragorn's face, she blinks, and a tear spills from beneath her lashes.

The snap of the latch and the creak of the door on its hinge betray Aragorn's entry. Maranwe takes a deep breath, preparing to assuage any lingering anger he feels with a lowly and loving apology. She waits.

 

But he does not come to her. Thinking he must have slipped out the side door into the garden, Maranwe rises to investigate, wrapping the crisp, white topsheet around her naked body. Halfway across the moonlit sitting room, her steps stop short when she spies a dark head resting on the arm of the couch. Coming from behind, she moves around to find him curled uncomfortably on the short sofa, still clothed, his loosed cloak pulled across the lower half of his body like a too-short blanket.

 

Maranwe can tell from the uneven, forced rhythm of his exhalations that he is awake, and that he is still angry. She sits gingerly on the inside corner of the armrest, and gently places a hand against his averted face. His breathing slows.

 

"Aragorn," she croons softly, as another tear escapes. "I am so very sorry for…." She cannot complete the sentence, but it is enough. He will know what she means.

 

Maranwe continues stroking his head and neck. "I am proud to be considered a Ranger, and most proud of you, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I know you are not ashamed of me, nor are you ever disrespectful."

Maranwe hangs her head. "I am ashamed of myself for the way I acted," she whispers contritely from behind the swaying screen of her hair. "My only explanation is this," she offers in honesty. "The wedding draws nigh…yet I know not who or what I should be in its aftermath. I feel unprepared in every way." Her shoulders rise and fall with a muted sigh. Placing both her hands in her lap, she confesses in a small voice, "If I could wish it so, I would have time stand still."

 

Raising himself on one elbow, Aragorn backs his spine against the couch and looks up at his bride-to-be. Wordlessly, he reaches out and rests his strong forearm on Maranwe's knee, encircling both her tiny wrists in his gentle grip and drawing her to her feet. With both her hands thus captured, the bed linen that covers her falls to the floor unarrested when she rises. After her foolish behavior, her open and honest apology, and now this unveiling, Maranwe feels naked in more ways than one, but Aragorn's gaze never leaves her countenance as he slowly pulls her down alongside and then underneath him.

 

With his face only inches from hers, Aragorn looks deeply into her eyes. "I want you to listen to me, Maranwe," he instructs her quietly, the hands that encompass her head and the grey orbs that hold her gaze making it impossible for her to look away. "There is nothing you need do or become, to be my wife. I love you exactly the way you are. You are my mate, my touchstone, my lover, my Queen. Every day I am filled with both pride and humility, that you would deign to share your life with me." In the silence that follows, his thumb tenderly wipes the trail of tears from her cheek.

 

Inching his tunic upwards to give her fingers access, Maranwe slowly caresses the small of Aragorn's back. With her knees already in the air to accommodate their bodies on the narrow couch, the intimacy of the moment is undeniable. "I love you, Dunadan," she breathes against his chin. "That is all I needed to hear." Her features tense anxiously. "Do you forgive me?" she wonders sadly.

 

Aragorn's lips are soft against hers, so that Maranwe feels as much as hears his words. "Already done, Lady Ranger." Their kisses are like the play of sunlight after a storm-- warm, lingering, intensifying--as they celebrate the renewal of their bond in the face of this test. Soon their hips shift together with the awakenings of desire, as Maranwe gradually begins assisting Aragorn to a like state of undress.

His shirt is shed easily enough, but when it comes to his pants, they find themselves rolling around precariously on the two-foot-wide seat. After Maranwe looses his buttons, Aragorn manages to make a frustratingly awkward affair of pushing the restricting garment down his thighs. Maranwe's lithe legs come to the rescue, her toes hooking into the slack waistband and wiggling the bunched-up breeches past his knees and down his calves. He kicks them off his ankles, chuckling into her ear, "I always knew you were a resourceful wench."

 

Still, their current position affords him little leverage. Swinging his legs to the floor, Aragorn shifts to the upright, pulling Maranwe around to face him. With his hips forward on the seat, there is more than sufficient room for her short thighs to enfold him. In her lingering emotional state, Maranwe feels nearly overcome by the reciprocating swell of her heart, as she lowers herself with sensual deliberation to find his fullness filling her completely, body and soul. Encased in Aragorn's loving arms, she is held so tightly, she can only grind slowly atop him, mirroring each deep probe of his tongue in her mouth with a pulsating squeeze below.

They kiss until their lips are ripe and swollen with the press and pull of their wanting; then they kiss some more. When it comes, the sudden, engulfing flush of heat seems to emanate from deep within her core, spreading like the wash of warm seas across Maranwe's body--as pulsing as the waves that sculpt the southern shoreline, as relentless as the Sea itself. Her mouth breaks from his to allow free voice to her sensual sighs of release.

Aragorn cups her face against his palm, reveling in the play of passion across her features, refusing his own release to relish hers. As Maranwe's intimate firestorm draws to a close, he tenderly claims her lips once again.

"You are never more beautiful than in the moment when your body surrenders to mine," he whispers, his vocal chords husky with emotion.

Maranwe gazes into his eyes-liquid, lost.

"You are never more magnificent than when your body claims mine," she echoes her own sentiment softly. He is still swollen and deep inside her. Maranwe rubs her delicate hands across his chest, tweaking the twin points of sensitivity buried in the matte of hair.

"What will you then, my long-standing lover?" she purrs, pumping her hips along the length of the implement that still impales her.

Aragorn groans softly, knowing he will not be fully satisfied without the freedom to control his own pace. Gently, he lifts her off his manhood, moving her to the side and rising behind her.

From her position kneeling on the soft cushion, Maranwe feels herself boosted up, suspended over the back of the couch. With a mixture of the rough and the tender, his large hands caress the back of her thighs, parting her for what she knows to be his glittering gaze and imminent penetration. She has awareness of the hopefully sturdy furniture taking his weight.

Then, with a grunt of pure delight, he enters her again. Clutching the two round handholds before him, Aragorn strikes up a relentless rhythm. His healthy endowment ensures a long throw to his deep and dipping strokes. The sensation of being jackknifed in the air for his pleasure is intensely erotic for Maranwe, swiftly pushing her beyond the first plateau and on to new heights of arousal. The measured beat of his pistoning hips triggers an answering thrumming in her body, as the inevitable moment rapidly approaches.

It is ultimately a most satisfying reconciliation for both.


	25. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for not updating in so long. Real life has been very, very challenging lately. Hope my readers are still with me.

Hands on hips, Maranwe casts a critical eye around the cottage. Hardly a slave to tidiness, she has nevertheless made an effort to straighten her meager belongings. Her biggest challenge has been Aragorn's growing collection of cast-off footwear, which he tends to leave wherever they fall upon removal. It will be interesting to see how long it takes him to find their hiding place under the bed. Her lips curve and her eyes dance in anticipation of the game.   


The lengthening afternoon sunlight suddenly slips full-bore across the windowsill, seeming to bring with it the rising sounds of the Gatekeeper's fanfare. Such rousing flourish normally heralds the approach of standard-bearers on the horizon, travelling in advance of some esteemed and expected personage. Maranwe has little doubt that this is the coming of the unnamed visitor. 

  
At almost the same moment, a sharp rap on the door signals the arrival of a heavily laden wagon from the Citadel, bearing the makings of a delightful feast. Maranwe admits the complement of pages and ladies-in-waiting from the Court, who waste no time in setting up tables in the garden and spreading a sumptuous outdoor banquet. Maranwe simply stands at the small door that opens from the bedroom to the backyard, watching in amazement.   


When all things are nearly ready, one of the matrons returns to the wain, reappearing minutes later at the interior door of Maranwe's room with a richly-hued garment draped over her forearm. 

  
Questioningly, Maranwe turns to her. "Are you the Court Seamstress?" she asks hopefully upon seeing the armload of fabric. 

  
"I am not," the woman demurs, as she lays her burden on the bed. "The King apologizes that this is not a custom-made gown." With a curtsy, she departs, pulling the door partway to on her way out. 

  
Closing the portal to the outside, Maranwe crosses the room and eagerly lifts the flowing, silken dress against her body. At least it is the correct length, or lack thereof, she reflects wryly. Quickly, she sheds her simple cotton clothing and slips her arms into the long, bell sleeves, her head through the V-neck opening. The hemline brushes her ankles in soft swirls as she pivots, surveying herself in the long mirror. 

  
The caftan style, with its richly embroidered yoke, she recognizes as an import from the famed bazaars of Harad. The feather-light fabric shifts sensually against her skin as she moves. The deep, green-blue colour pleases her mightily, for it is her favorite. The only thing lacking is a belt, for on her slender frame, the excess material billows unnecessarily. With a smile, she recalls the relayed regrets proffered by the matron-in-waiting.   


"Is the King too busy, or too cowardly, to make his own apologies?" she murmurs casually to the woman in the mirror. 

  
"Neither," responds an amused, masculine voice on her right.   


On long legs swift and sure, Aragorn enters through the half-open door and takes her in his arms, practically lifting her off her feet. His quiet tone only serves to underscore his sincerity. "I am sorry this is not yet the wedding gown I promised you. Do not think that I have forgotten." He hugs her close, enjoying the discovery his hands make of her diminutive curves underneath the loose-fitting silk.   


Arching her body into his, Maranwe tilts her face upwards. "It is beautiful," she declares softly, gratitude in her eyes, contentment in her voice. "Rest assured, this is more to my liking than any overwrought finery could ever be. Thank you." They kiss briefly, circumspectly, knowing they cannot indulge themselves fully just yet.   


Moments later, the clear ringing of a handbell signals the end of preparations and the arrival of their guest. After delivering one final promising squeeze below her waist, Aragorn takes Maranwe by the hand and leads her to the garden door.   


"Come, my love," he says, an infectious twinkle in his eye. "Your patience is about to be rewarded." 

 

*********************** 

 

Tall and lordly he stands, grave and commanding, infused with an ancient beauty. He is draped wholly in the whitest of robes. The fall of his bright silver hair frames a face filled with immutable wisdom. His keen eyes acknowledge first Aragorn, then come to rest unwaveringly upon Maranwe. 

  
Pulling her forward into the light, Aragorn makes the introductions. "Maranwe of Ithilien, daughter of Erufailaru and Anorwen." He steps back with an expansive gesture towards their guest. "Celeborn the Wise, Lord of the Galadhrim." 

  
Maranwe gasps in wonder and bows her head respectfully. "My Lord Celeborn," she pays homage to the Master of the House of her father.   


After due pause, raising her eyes back to the ageless visage before her, Maranwe avows softly, "Never did I dare to dream this day would come." Behind her, Aragorn smiles in tender empathy, sharing her joy and amazement vicariously, recognizing the sense of completeness this moment brings to her life.   


Reaching out his long hands, the Lord of Lorien lightly clasps her shoulders, surveying her at arms' length, taking her measure by means both seen and unseen. Maranwe, who by this point in life is so accustomed to her height perspective in relation to those around her as to be nearly oblivious to the disparity, suddenly feels quite short indeed next to the towering Elf-lord.   


Celeborn's clear, quiet voice addresses her for the first time. "You have grown to womanhood both fair and wise." His gaze is kindly appraising, yet Maranwe cannot long maintain the intense eye contact. She looks away in confusion and embarrassment. Releasing her arms, Celeborn concludes in approval, "Your father's humble grace and strength dwell in you also." 

  
Maranwe glances up reflexively. "You knew my father…..personally?" 

  
With a grave inclination of his head, the Elf-lord confirms. 

  
Maranwe's gaze falters. "Throughout my life, it has been my abiding emptiness, never to have known him," she imparts wistfully. 

  
"Erufailaru was my nephew," elaborates Celeborn. "He forsook his rightful place in my House to wed your mother. Theirs was a great love, one which ultimately fulfilled an ages-old Foretelling." 

  
Maranwe's eyes grow wide and fill with tears at the same time. She feels Aragorn's comforting hand slip around her waist. 

  
The Lord of the Galadhrim's sagacious gaze takes in the close-knit couple, as he continues, "After your father's death and Anorwen's flight, you passed out of our sight for many long years, until the day you crossed our borders journeying North." Aragorn nods, Celeborn's clarity confirming the Ranger's conjecture. "Then it was that we knew there was still hope of reuniting the sundered lines of Numenor. You have been under the watchful eyes of the Elves ever since." 

  
A dream-like peacefulness settles over Maranwe. "I am both honored and humbled to warrant such guardianship from so great and wise a People," she murmurs, again dipping her chin in obeisance. 

  
Lord Celeborn's expression grows indistinct, as though he is looking upon a distant shore. "Our People will diminish," he intones solemnly. "The Tides of Time will sweep away Lothlorien." He turns to the lovers standing before him. "Yet the blood of the Galadhrim shall ever remain in Middle Earth, within the House of Telcontar." Maranwe's head drops against Aragorn's chest, as his arm tightens about her waist.   


Then Celeborn takes Maranwe's hand. "One day soon you shall come and dwell in Caras Galadhon as a guest-nay, as a long-lost daughter. And I will tell you of Erufailaru the Silversmith and Swain of Anorwen." 

  
Smiling brightly, Maranwe allows herself to be escorted to the banquet table by the Lords of two realms, one of Elves, the other of Men. Yet as they gather behind the row of ornately carved chairs, it is apparent that an empty place remains. With upraised hand, Aragorn halts the servers who scurry forward bearing trays of food and bottles of wine.   


"Will not the Lady be joining us?" he queries their esteemed guest. 

  
In the way of Elves, Celeborn responds wordlessly with an unfathomable look of intense expectation. At that moment, the air around them seems to shimmer with a new presence. All eyes are drawn to a break in the hedge, at which the Mistress of Lorien suddenly appears. Surrounded by a retinue of lithe attendants, she glides through the lilac gate and across the garden, no less an imposing figure than the Lord himself. Upon being presented with the daughter of Erufailaru, the Lady Galadriel's enigmatic first words seem to hint at the latent power she conceals and commands. 

  
"At last you do not need the changing winds of Breeland to uncover your token," she says with a glint in her eye and a small smile on her lips.   


Maranwe's fingers stray to the sliver of silver at her throat. Wondering, she sets this moment aside in her heart to ponder in private. 

  
They now take their seats before a table spread with all the returning bounty of a Gondor burgeoning anew in the first season beyond the blight of Sauron. There will be years of greater harvest, but none so sweet as these first offerings of a re-awakening land. Between sumptuous samplings, the tale is told of the Dark Lord's fruitless assaults on Lorien, and of the Lord and Lady's triumphant march on Dol Guldur following his defeat. They celebrate Galadriel's utter destruction of Sauron's ancient stronghold there within Mirkwood, the final purging that restores Greenwood the Great to the safe haven it once was. Much discussion is given to the subsequent mid-forest meeting between Celeborn and Thranduil, during which the two Elven Rulers generously apportioned the reclaimed and renamed Eryn Lasgalen with their neighbors.   


Presently, the High Couple of the Galadhrim arise, announcing their desire for an audience with Gandalf on the same subjects. Aragorn determines to escort them, and Maranwe bids her farewells to the Lord and Lady.   


Before departing, Galadriel motions forward three serene Elven maids from among her entourage. "I leave with you my seamstresses," the Lady of the Wood announces to Maranwe.   


Although fully persuaded of the depths of Elven foresight, Maranwe nevertheless glances with sharp uncertainty from Galadriel to Aragorn and back again. "How did you know?" she asks in a small voice, discomfiture beginning. 

  
The Elven Queen replies in lilting kindness. "Elessar sent word of your need." 

 

********************

 

 

Presently the day comes when the new King and his old friend the Wizard are not to be found within the City. While Maranwe and the remaining Ring Companions go about their respective daily activities, each balancing differing degrees of patience and curiosity, it is the light of the rising moon that eventually picks out two figures ascending the southern face of Mount Mindolluin.   


By the time the morning sun returns to the sky, the climbers have followed the ages-old path to a high hallow, there to find a solitary white sapling, newly-sprung from a long dormant fruit of the line of Nimloth the fair. At the feet of this living symbol of Numenor's survival, there grows also a tender flowering shrub, curiously outside its natural habitat within the gentle forests of Ithilien. Yet here on a mountain slope at the very edge of the snowline, sheltered beneath the arms of the supple young tree, the small bush is ripe with budding life, greeting the day with its first flower, a single diminutive white rose. 

  
In gladness and reverence, Aragorn gently reaches out towards the partnered plants. With roots intertwined, they cling tightly to each other and only lightly to the earth, seeming to spring willingly into his hands. Carefully, Aragorn bears them both off the mountain and unto the Courtyard of the Fountain, where they will wax together for decades unceasing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The recitation of Celeborn and Galadriel's roles in the Ring War and the recontruction are gleaned from the appendices.
> 
> Telcontar is the name taken by Aragorn for his House and heirs. It means "Strider" in the high tongue.


	26. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"Look, Mama! Elves!!" the wide-eyed child exclaims from behind the tented curtain. Her mother steps to the window and draws aside its covering, fascination softening her face as well as she witnesses the passing procession. The recent months have brought many new and sometimes unusual sights to the streets of Minas Tirith, yet the fair vision of this gentle group gliding past in the light of a new day begets within the hearts of its female watchers primarily a peaceful sense of empathy. 

  
At the forefront strides a tall Elven maiden, loosely leading a newly-groomed young mare. The pony with the coat of white and black steps proudly, adorned in the ceremonial regalia of the Royal Steeds of Gondor. Behind the prancing pinto come two more Maids of Lorien moving in perfect unison, bearing with ease between them a carved trunk of gleaming _mallorn_ wood. The last figure in the entourage is not an Elf, but rather a stately older woman of high Gondorian mien, cradling in her bent elbow the handle of a large basket heaped with milky white flowers.   


"Where are they going?" the little girl breathes in wonder, as the four mysterious passersby and their equine charge disappear from view through the Sixth Gate.   


"I do not know, child," her mother admits softly, still lulled by the serenity left in the Elves' wake. "Yet had I to guess, I might say they have a role to play in today's wedding celebration."   


The child glances up quickly with excitement, and the two share a smile of anticipation. 

 

********************* 

 

Winding their way through the Circle below the Citadel, the courtly quintet eventually leaves the echoing cobble-stoned street to enter the grounds of the Healers, there coming to a muffled halt on the wide dirt path before the last House on the left.   


Just returned from her early morning bathing ritual at the willow pond, Maranwe spies her visitors approaching and wordlessly opens the cottage door, touching her hand to her brow and briefly bowing her gaze in greeting to the Elven seamstresses. The lady-in-waiting Maranwe recognizes as the same matron to whom Aragorn entrusted the gifting of her luxurious caftan--a woman in her twilight years, of a generation twice removed from Maranwe's.   


"Welcome," the Lady Ranger greets her.   


Maranwe now finds herself being led to the bedroom, pampered and surrounded on all sides by the gentle solicitations of many feminine hands. Soft slippers are placed on her feet; her long locks are combed and dried, and intertwined with a fall of white blossoms; while from the clothing chest is drawn the oft-longed-for and as-yet-unseen wedding gown. Once revealed, Maranwe can only catch her breath at its beauty.   
  


It is the deep green of the forests that cover Cair Andros, accented with the creamy white of mighty Anduin's lacy waters breaking against the rocky isle. The curving hourglass lines of the lushly hued gown, both front and back, enhance the waistline. The translucent side panels have the ethereal softness and colour of seafoam. The fabric itself is unlike anything woven in the world of Men-one moment sheer, the next, opaque. The entire dress shimmers with the light of the land that lies under the _mallorn_ trees.   


When finally Maranwe tears her eyes from the exquisite garment, her grateful gaze gathers in all three of Galadriel's handmaidens. "Your skill is beyond compare," she compliments sincerely, even though she knows the Eldar care little for the praise of Men. No doubt her eyes are cheating her when, for a moment, she thinks she sees a flicker of gratitude touch the serene Elven countenances.   


Bowing her grey head, the lady-in-waiting now steps forward. "I have brought fragrant perfumes and sweet oils for your pleasure," she announces dutifully, delving to the bottom of her basket for a stoppered bottle. With difficulty, she drops to her knees before the chair where Maranwe sits captive to the myriad ministrations of her Elven hair attendants. "Shall I anoint your skin for the nuptials?" 

  
Maranwe waves her to her feet with a self-conscious laugh. "Pray, do not fuss over me so," implores the queen-to-be. The elder woman looks at her, respect and fondness awakening. There is a short pause, during which Maranwe seems to ponder and resolve a dilemma. Then she continues, veiling her hopefulness in off-hand request. "Yet there is one thing in which you could assist me." 

  
"At your bidding, O Lady," the woman responds, setting aside her things and waiting deferentially.   


Willing her decision to be well-founded, Maranwe fixes the matron's attention with an earnest look. Anyone that Aragorn has deemed worthy of his confidence is surely someone to whom she can entrust this task.   


"The Wood-Elf Prince holds something for me, something of great sentiment and import. Please find him, and see to it that this thing is concealed in the bridal chamber **_after_** King Elessar departs for the ceremony. The Elf-Lord will tell you where." She smiles with an air of intrigue. "I trust I do not need to stress the element of secrecy," she interjects firmly yet conspiratorially.   


"Your trust will not be misplaced," the older woman promises, pausing and taking the liberty to observe gently, "The Halls of the High Seat of Gondor have been a passionless place for far too long." Her words carry the ring of truth, coming from one whose years and wisdom give her license. "There is naught but goodwill in the hearts of all the people for this union." 

  
Touched, Maranwe rises and reaches out a hand. "What is your name?" She clasps the weathered fingers in hers. 

  
"Gilion." The kindly matron's clear brown eyes meet Maranwe's green gaze with dignity.   


"I thank you, Gilion," murmurs Maranwe, warmth reflected in her voice and visage.   


************************** 

 

With one last look around the newly re-fashioned room, Aragorn draws closed the heavy and hopefully soundproof door. He has put much thought into the design of these chambers. The next time he steps through this portal, he intends to have his bride in his arms. His lips curve in anticipation and a small impatient sigh slips from his lungs.   


With the appointed hour fast approaching, Aragorn makes his way to the Courtyard of the Kings. Enroute, he stops to collect Bragi personally from the Citadel stables, much to the surprise and consternation of the livery boy, who is still accustomed to the haughty idleness and imperious commands of the last and lost Steward. This new Lord, with his gentle, bonding ways towards the animals, his unaffected treatment of even the most lowly of stable hands, and his determination to do for himself, is altogether different. 

  
In the end, the King spends a bit too much time putting the final touches on his mount's accoutrements, resulting in the need for haste as he follows the wide tunnel up from the underground stables to the light of the Courtyard. He emerges from the shade of the archway just as the shadow on the giant sundial slips into nothingness and the First Trumpeter raises his horn. Swiftly and silently, Aragorn sidles into place beside his companions, drawing a " _You're late_ " look from the Elf, and a roll of the eyes from the wizard. Then Gandalf gives the signal and the fanfare sounds, calling the commencement of a day of epic grandeur, unlike anything seen in Gondor in many an age.   


There is silence at first, as all wait expectantly. Slowly, a collective sigh of wonder ripples through the multitude on the far side of the white expanse of stone. Aragorn turns his face to the sound, holding his head a little higher in his eagerness. A breeze freshens his visage. Then the throng parts on a wave of excited murmurings, making way for the bride and her escort. 

  
It is an almost incongruous picture, the tall Elf-lord arrayed all in white, leading the diminutive piebald pony. Yet it is a vision that Aragorn will carry with him for all his long days. And there atop Freya demurely rides Maranwe, her body rocking gently with the horse's gait, as she twists from her sideways seat to grasp the apex of Freya's brocaded yoke. Her gown glimmers in the bright sunlight, the cool hues of sylvan and seafoam almost blinding in their clarity. Not for all the riches in all the Kingdoms of Men, nor Elves, nor Dwarves, could Aragorn have taken his eyes from her in that moment.   


For her part, Maranwe too has eyes only for the one she loves, yet with the shimmering glare from the Courtyard of White and the glint of the noonday sun on the trumpeters' instruments, she cannot pick him out. Shading her face, she casts her gaze anxiously across the distance to the Citadel steps.   


In that unison of understanding honed on less happy fields of grandeur, Aragorn and his dearest Elven friend simultaneously realize her difficulty. Glancing behind them at the gleaming row of brass horns and then upwards, Legolas mutters, "The sun," even as he feels Bragi's reins thrust into his hand.   


A tremulous smile of joy breaks across Maranwe's countenance, as Aragorn steps out beyond the tricks of the sunlight. Proudly he strides forward to meet his bride, there beside the flourishing White Tree and its richly flowering partner. To Celeborn, he offers a brief nod and soft Elvish words of thanks. To the bridal mount, he gives a gentle pat. Then, while the Lord of Lorien withdraws, Aragorn moves alongside the black and white flanks, reaching up for Maranwe's waist.   


Lightly, she slips off Freya's back and into the strong circle of Aragorn's hands. As he lowers her slowly to the ground, the cascade of white roses in Maranwe's hair intertwines its delicate scent with the fragrance of rosemary and citrus he knows so well. It is all he can do keep from enveloping her in his arms and burying his senses in her delights.   


With the eyes of all Gondor upon them, Maranwe helplessly and happily loses herself in the soulful grey pools above her. She can feel her heart hammering in her chest-surely Aragorn can feel it too, their bodies are so close. She pulls in a deep, shaking breath. 

  
" _Melamin_ ," Aragorn whispers in that voice reserved for her alone. "I am right here." And she warms to the sensation, as his fingertips draw soothing little circles in the small of her back, keeping her there, in the moment, with him, giving her the gift of calm in the midst of the storm of her emotions. Maranwe thinks she has never loved him more. She smiles gratefully, and together they turn to meet the advancing figure of Gandalf.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 


	27. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In the weighty silence of the Citadel Courtyard, a lone sound unexpectedly peppers the air - the staccato rhythm of hoofbeats resounding on the ancient stones. A twist of the head was all it took to wrest the reins from the slack fingers of the surprised Elf, and now Bragi follows unbidden in the wizard's wake. While Maranwe, thankful for the comic relief, suppresses a smile, Aragorn quietly greets the resourceful stallion and the bemused Loremaster, using gentle hands to maneuver his faithful equine friend into position beside Freya.

  
Now, casting his kindly gaze upon this couple whose love could not be dissuaded, Gandalf reserves for each a wordless look of personal blessing before beginning his public address.

  
"Hearken!" The White Wizard's voice rings out, measured and mellifluous. "Hearken well, O ye citizens of Gondor, denizens of Arnor, peoples of Eriador, folk of Middle Earth - guests and neighbors, new allies and old friends." His voice softens slightly in fondness over the last words, and his eyes flicker to the place where the Ring Companions stand.

"Today we celebrate the vestiges of a lineage all but lost; the veracity of verses long forgotten; and the victory of a love never quelled." The sweeping sleeves of his ever-white robe brush the ground, as Gandalf spreads his arms wide, invoking and inviting the affirmation of all. "May this union, Aragorn Elessar and Maranwe Virenelle, be forever proclaimed from this day forward," he declares loudly. His words hang on the breeze like a balm, recalling a rite of old in the dawn of a new age. Then, folding his hands into the deep reaches of his garment, the wizard draws back, allowing others to take the fore.

  
One by one, the many emissaries and heralds, historians and scholars, come forward in tribute. There are flowery speeches of fealty and well-wishing from all corners of the kingdom, paired with melodious presentations of like diversity in the lyrical arts - songs and dances, old and new, of celebration and congratulation. The lengthy tale is told of the sundering of the North and South Kingdoms in the time of Earnur, and a reckoning given of the lineage, such as it is known on both sides, throughout the intervening ages.

  
The mesmerizing Mistress of Lorien herself picks up the narrative, with the bittersweet love story of a renowned Elven Silversmith and a maiden of Ithilen skilled beyond her years in the arts of herbs and healing. As this, her own long-hidden history unfolds, Maranwe can sense Galadriel's sidelong azure gaze seek her out, can feel a strangely localized breeze suddenly spring up and flutter the wide silken ties of her shoulder straps across her throat and the necklace that nestles there. When Galadriel speaks aloud the verses of old coupled with those engraved upon Erufailaru's gift to his infant daughter, Maranwe perceives without naming the power of Nenya, and knows that not all the threads of her life have been random.

Now, as the recitations fade away and the golden sun slips behind the Tower that bears its name, Gandalf takes center stage once again. "In the end," he intones with fond finality, "these two hearts knew better than all the Forces, both good and evil, that surrounded them." He turns to the lovers standing patiently hand-in-hand. "What indeed the Valar have joined together, let none put asunder."

Clasping their intertwined palms between his, the wizard speaks both a benediction and a marital consecration, sealing each clause with a pause between.

"Live in peace," - a lump swells in Maranwe's throat -

  
"Love with passion," - a slight squeeze from Aragorn's fingers -

  
"And linger long among your people and your progeny," - a smile infuses Gandalf's face -

"For _thus_ shall the Days of the King come to pass."

  
Stepping back with an expansive flourish, the White Wizard releases them to the multitude, declaring, "Behold, King Elessar and Queen Maranwe!"

  
As the throng sends up an approving cheer, the newlyweds turn to face each other. Yet at this, their moment of public union, contrary to popular expectation, the couple does not kiss. That is a sweetness to be saved for later, shared and savoured in the presence of only two. Rather, they both reach in tenderness for the beloved face before them, drinking each other in with fingertips and eyes, until the world around them is eclipsed, until they are falling forever from the precipice.

 

**************************

 

She comes smiling into his long bowman's arms, the top of her dark head barely reaching the center of his chest. They exchange a prolonged look of seeming import, before he bends his fair face past the adornment of Ithilien roses in her tresses. Welcome words tickle Maranwe's temple, and she tips her lips to the point of his leaf-shaped ear to murmur a quick response.

The exchange is not lost on the groom, busy though he is accepting the congratulations of the steady stream of close friends that file past into the modest private hall. Aragorn raises his eyebrows in surprise at the Elf's physical demonstrativeness towards his bride, yet, in truth, he cannot blame any male who avails himself of the opportunity. He eyes Eomer, next in line, with knowing suspicion. Not until the following day does Aragorn realize the protracted embrace for what it was - a feint for the sharing of information.

In time, everyone finds their places around the wide, U-shaped banquet board that dominates the room. At the hands of the Citadel cooking staff, an eclectic feast quickly appears, catering to the tastes of all comers, Elf to Dwarf, and any in-between. The small, convivial crowd soon fills the four walls with merriment.

  
Against this backdrop of love and laughter, a contemplative Aragorn takes the time to cast a reflective gaze around the gathered guests, lingering longest on a handful of well-loved faces. At one point or another, in one way or another, he owes his life to each of these his companions. Lastly, he catches the eye of his bride, who promptly forsakes her polite conversation with Gimli to intertwine her forearm with Aragorn's atop the table. It is a quiet moment of contentment laced with longing. The Dwarf chuckles indulgently.

  
Eventually, with bellies full and wine glasses half-empty, the table's high-spirited attention returns to the bride and groom. Warm words and rich reminiscences begin to flow from the tongues of those assembled. As the Toastmaster's Cup makes its way round the head table, Maranwe lays her cheek against Aragorn's bicep and smiles sweetly up at him. To all present, it looks to be the loving gesture of an adoring wife. None understand the look of warning her husband gives her in return, for they cannot see, underneath the finely woven tablecloth, the slow slide of Maranwe's hand up Aragorn's thigh. At his behest, they have spent the last three nights apart, a bald ploy to heighten the piquancy of their first evening alone as husband and wife. Maranwe has reluctantly agreed, nevertheless taking every opportunity to tempt her lover with seductive whisperings and torturous near-touches, to the point where Aragorn can think of little else other than taking her to his bed. Fortunately for both, their social obligations are nearly over.

Tradition dictates the final nuptial formality - the initiation of the musical festivities. With kingly flourish, Aragorn leads his queen to the center of the dance floor, as a quartet of Elven musicians files into place. At a brief nod from Aragorn, the haunting melody begins - the same melody that a Dunadan of the North once sang beside a campfire to a Lady Ranger of the South. As the two lovers move languidly in each other's arms, he whispers the intimate words in Maranwe's ear once again. When the song ends, grey meets green as their eyes lock, lost in the memory of the night their love was kindled. Bending close, Aragorn softly brushes Maranwe's nose with his, a tease and a promise of the kiss to come. Her body seems to melt against him.

  
At long last, he turns to the assembled company and announces with quiet finality, "We bid you feast and be merry." Offering no pretense and affording no delay, Aragorn then takes his bride by the hand and leads her out of the hall, unto their private chambers.

 

   
  
---  
  
 

  
  



	28. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

It is well that the door is already ajar, for Aragorn heedlessly kicks it back on its hinges, entering the dusk-and-lantern-lit room with a welcome burden in his arms.  Slowly, he lowers Maranwe to the floor, his body hard against hers, his eyes smoky pools of emotion.  Sliding his hands under the fall of her hair, he frames her face and gently tilts her mouth beneath his for their first kiss as husband and wife.  Though their lips have surely met a thousand times before, this is a sweet beginning, a slow and sensual prelude to a night they will remember always.  
  
 

With a deep sigh of fulfillment, Aragorn in time breaks away, spinning Maranwe in his arms to face the room, while finally indulging his senses in the fragrant softness at the nape of her neck.   
  


“I trust our personal chambers are to your liking,” he murmurs against her ear, as she leans backwards into the circle of his embrace.  
  
 

Mustering a supreme effort of concentration, Maranwe ignores his warm breath on her neck and opens her eyes to survey the space before her.  Her immediate reaction is one of pleasure at the room’s simplicity—no muddled tapestries nor filigree porcelain vessels, no ornately carved and brocaded furniture, no heavy silken draperies.  The chamber is dominated by the presence of an impressively large bed, raised but slightly off the floor, and flanked by two well-turned nightstands.  All three pieces reflect the honest labor of a skilled yet humble carpenter, without the overarching ornamentation seen elsewhere in the Citadel.  The same can be said of the long bookcase opposite the foot end, already populated with an intriguing rainbow of volumes.  
  


As Maranwe’s avid gaze circles the chamber, the triple mysteries of two closed doorways and a shuttered window beckon from right angles.  One corner of the room is devoted to a wide-mouthed hearth, wherein lies the kindling cradle for a first fire.  Atop the bedside tables, graceful Elven oil-lamps, trimmed low, await the full fall of night.  
  
   

“Well?” comes a deep voice from above her head, as Aragorn lazily rocks their bodies from side to side, little disguising the latent purpose in the sway of his hips.  
  
 

“It is greatly to my liking,” Maranwe agrees, laughing and pulling away from the sharp nibble on her ear.  While Aragorn belatedly thinks to shut the door and drop the bolt, Maranwe’s voice turns soft with quiet honesty.  “If my public affairs must now be fraught with finery, I would wish my private space to be exactly thus—filled only with the things that are the heart of me.”

  
As Maranwe steps further into the bedchamber, another dimension of detail strikes her.  Turning to her husband, she arches an eyebrow and purses her lips in speculation.  “Moreover…….I can see from the size of the central piece of furniture that this room has but one primary purpose.”  The corners of her mouth twitch crookedly upwards.   
  


Aragorn returns her smile, denying nothing.  “There is a dressing area to the right”—he gestures to the nearest closed portal—“and a bathing house through those doors,” he informs her with a nod at the opposite wall.  “From thence, there is access to the walled garden.”  
  
 

With an indistinct murmur of happiness, Maranwe moves to the bedside, pausing to run her hand lightly over the sweeping lines of the nearest lamp, before fueling its soft light with a twist of the knob.  Aragorn comes to her in the deepening twilight, taking both her hands in his and gazing solemnly into her eyes.  
  
 

“There is one thing I would ask of you, Lady Ranger,” he begins, his verbal formality masking the qualms he feels, while inadvertently raising disquiet in Maranwe’s mind.

  
“Anything, Dunadan,” she answers quickly, knitting her brow in concern.  
  
 

Aragorn drops his gaze, giving himself time to choose his words.  Then, slowly, he draws his eyes up her body to her face, his fingertips up her bare arms to her shoulders.  
  
 

“Will you forego the _Ferula_ , now that we are man and wife?”  The pride of his ancestry creeps into the quiet entreaty.  “I would not be the last of my line.”

  
Maranwe’s face relaxes momentarily, before she is assailed with sudden uncertainty over the bold and unilateral choice she is about to confess.  She lays her cheek against the strong hand that rests on her collarbone, hoping he will welcome her next words.  
  
 

“I already have,” she admits softly, hesitantly, “the same day we were betrothed.”

  
Although Aragorn raises an eyebrow in surprise, a pleased smile steals across his countenance.  
  
   

Maranwe continues in explanation.  “It is known, the powerful herb needs at least thrice-a-fortnight to pass from the body.”

  
Combining some quick calculations with his knowledge of Maranwe’s cycle, Aragorn after a pause ventures hopefully, “So today....?”

  
Maranwe dips her chin, looking up at him almost shyly.  “It is the optimum time, yes.”

  
Smiling even more broadly, Aragorn pulls her close, his voice taking on an edge of desire.  “All the more reason to see to it that the gates are properly stormed this night.”

  
Maranwe surrenders her body to his, murmuring impishly ere his lips find hers, “Yours for the taking, O Captain of the West.”

  
They kiss with increasing wantonness, their passion frustratingly fettered by the rich and complex layers of a King’s vestments.  Once again, Aragorn breaks away, eliciting a sigh of amorous abandon from Maranwe’s throat.  The ball of his thumb against her lips quiets her, even as her mouth forms invitingly around the tip.  With difficulty, he pulls his hand away, forcing out the words, “Wait here, _melamin_ , while I shed these restricting garments.”

  
Before departing, Aragorn looks her up and down appraisingly.  Slowly, he runs his forefinger under the sheer fabric of her gown, lightly tracing the daring drape of her neckline from one shoulder to the other, barely brushing her skin.  Maranwe’s breathing deepens in the wake of his searingly seductive touch.  
  


His bearded face leans in close.  “Leave this for me to do.”  The whispered promise tickles her ear, and Maranwe’s body tingles with the warm flush of desire.   
  


After Aragorn disappears into the adjoining wardrobe room, Maranwe empties her lungs with a last, lingering sigh.  Clasping one wrist with the opposite hand, she reaches for the ceiling and then the floor, the spine and shoulder stretch a welcome relief after hours of relative immobility.  Gratefully, she kicks off the low slippers made by the Elves as part of her wedding ensemble, smiling as she slides them under the bed and sees what she already knew would be there.  
  
    

Feeling almost guilty about occupying the soft mattress for the first time without her lover, Maranwe perches there only long enough to carefully pluck the array of blossoms from her hair.  Her face puckers briefly in sadness, as she cradles the perfect white roses in her lap.  Without water, they will surely wilt before morning.  She sighs, reminding herself that there is beauty, however arrested, in dried blooms as well.

  
Curiosity and the desire for fresh air draw her to the window.  Artistically, she lays her floral garland along the wide dropped sill, then flips the latch. The elongated halves of the shutters swing noiselessly towards her, bringing with them the verdant scent of the night garden, and the intermittent chirping of the eventide insects.  The waning crescent moon and the summer stars reflect their pact to adorn the sky as darkness deepens.  From far below, Maranwe imagines that she can hear the faint rush of the Great River sweeping past the City of Kings.  Closing her eyes, she tilts her face to the heavens, knowing with her entire being a joy so complete as to transcend mere words and earthly bounds.

 


	29. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

She senses rather than hears the footfalls behind her. Heartbeat quickening, Maranwe pivots to find Aragorn standing beside the bed, two upside down wineglasses slotted between the fingers of one hand, an opened bottle in the other. He wears only a pair of loose-fitting homespun breeches, secured low on his hips by a carelessly-tied drawstring.   


Maranwe takes in his appearance with a slow, salacious smile. "Mm-m-m-m-m…," she murmurs appreciatively, unconsciously parting her lips with her tongue in anticipation. 

  
Aragorn feels the answering swell of his own anticipation. He thinks for the thousandth time, how arousing he finds it when Maranwe displays her passion for him so openly. Dropping his chin, he fixes her with a boldly rapacious look that leaves nothing, yet everything, to the imagination. He speaks two words only. 

  
"Come here." 

  
It is a lover's command, given in that soft yet compelling voice that never fails to entice and enchant. Obediently, Maranwe crosses the floor to stand before him, locked in the burning light of his eyes. She accepts the offering of the wineglass with a graceful hand, stroking her fingertips along his forearm to cup the vessel, sending delicious shivers through Aragorn's senses. He pours a small amount of the deep red liquid into the basin of both glasses, then sets the bottle on the bedside table.   


Interlacing their arms in the timeless spiral of a lover's pledge, Aragorn seals the moment with a toast, spoken in the tongues of both Men and Elves. 

  
"To our love. _Ana melesselva_." 

  
Gazes in thrall, they sip of the heady vintage, awakening their taste buds to the delights to come. Then Aragorn gently takes both their goblets and places them with the wine bottle. 

  
Turning back to his bride, he bends his lips to the slope of Maranwe's neck. She drops her head sideways with a soft moan, arching back into his arms as his warm, wet kisses melt all self-control. Her hands slide down the taut, muscular slope of Aragorn's back to dip below his waistband, as his fingers play provocatively with the wide silken straps that tie at her shoulders. Deftly he wriggles a fingertip into one gossamer bow, loosening the knot just enough for his teeth to pull the first loop free. The garment's weight begins to do the rest, and Maranwe murmurs in surprise at the swift and sensuous disrobing. Aragorn laughs, cupping the side of her face against his palm, coming up to capture her lips before repeating his task on the opposite side. He steps back as the gown slips off her body, falling to the ground in a diaphanous cascade.   


For a moment, they simply drink each other in with unquenchable eyes, until a small smile begins to play about Maranwe's lips. "Somehow, I always seem to be the first one out of my clothes," she remarks in helpless amusement.   


Pulling her into his arms, Aragorn growls lasciviously, "That is because I like you _best_ that way." He tries to kiss her, but Maranwe pushes him playfully away, instead reaching for the drawstring at his waist. 

  
"I like **you** best that way as well," she insists lustfully, yanking the cord free while still holding an increasingly impassioned Aragorn at bay. She is immediately rewarded with a compelling sight.   


Hands on hips, Aragorn kicks his clothing aside with finality. "Do **_not_** toy with me any longer, Maranwe," he warns in a quiet voice that hints at consequences if gone unheeded.   


After a moment's pleasurable perusal, Maranwe comments coyly, "Indeed, your weapon appears _most_ ready"-raising her eyes back to his face-"O Wielder of the Sword Reforged." 

  
With that, Aragorn scoops her off the floor, his patience and his passion well beyond the limits of endurance. Displaying his well-toned strength, he knee-walks onto the massive bed with Maranwe still in his arms, lowering her supine form against the bank of pillows. One agile and eager leg curls round his thigh, pulling the willing groom atop his bride. Now their limbs intertwine in a sinuous dance of desire; their bodies meet in a searing flare of passion. Accompanied by Aragorn's succulent kisses to Maranwe's breasts, a whispered duet of love arises, a trading of tender intimacies and naked desires, the sensual secrets of the heart fueling their already enflamed bodies.   


In time, Aragorn slips his hand past the slight swell of her abdomen, caressing the inside of her thighs, accentuating their mutual ache unbearably, before finally sliding his fingers along the path most desired by both. Maranwe twists her knuckles in his long hair, pulling his ear to her lips and whispering urgently, "Dunadan, please…" 

  
Aragorn responds with a quick and bruising kiss, plundering her mouth, stealing her breath. Then, rising on his knees above her, he gently takes her right hand and pulls it down with his to cover her womb, the warmth of his palm sealing their combined touch, focusing the force of their love there together. His eyes burn with a passion beyond the mere physical.   


"Then let this be the hour," Aragorn declares with an intensity that she has never seen.   


Moments pass. From the haze of her ardor, Maranwe surfaces to search his face in wonder. "You cannot order the Fates so….," she protests softly, reflexively, even though the longer she looks into his countenance, the less she credits her own words.   


"You need only believe, Maranwe," her husband promises, as he slowly, exquisitely fills her. 

  
As always, Maranwe's eyelids dip and her vocal chords tremble at this moment of ecstasy. Dropping onto his forearms, Aragorn sets a masterful pace, claiming his bride, asserting the power of his loins and lineage. Her fingernails dig gently into his sides, marking time for the relentless rocking of their hips. With their fervent faces curtained by the fall of Aragorn's hair and the bulge of his biceps, they both gaze down to the place where their bodies are joined. The power and intimacy of the visual enhances their arousal, as he thrusts himself rhythmically, deeply inside her. 

  
After a few minutes, the words flutter against his chest, "O, Aragorn…," and he feels Maranwe draw her limber legs up alongside his ribs to take him deeper still. Her head drops back to the pillow. He braces himself, one hand gripping the headboard, the other clasping Maranwe's thigh, all languorousness abandoned in that final, pounding rush of power and passion, force and friction.   


Maranwe's highly stimulated senses register the exact moment-the hot force of Aragorn's explosion inside her on the upsurge of her own tumultuous wave. In that instant, her mind reels with a kaleidoscope of emotions, filled with love and surrender, the desire to receive something of him, the determination to create something of them both.   


And though amidst passion's long night and the many that follow, the exact hour can never be known for certain, it is indeed nine months to the day, when all the clarions of the White Tower ring out in joy, announcing the arrival of the first heir of Numenor born within the City in years beyond memory.


	30. CHAPTER THIRTY

The peaks and valleys glisten white in the early morning sunlight, the mountain of bedcovers on the floor a testament to the ample use made of the expansive mattress during the night now past. The lovers lie sprawled across the bed in exhausted slumber, one on his back, the other on her side.   
  


Aragorn awakens first, fully aware of his manhood in the aftermath of their wedding night. A blissful smile broadens his features, before he rolls up on one elbow to greet his bride.  
  
 

Maranwe is still asleep, her back to him, hugging a pillow. His gaze lingers over the slope of her shoulders, the muscled V of her back, the dip of her waistline, the curve of her hips, the swell of her twin assets, the contoured strength of her slender thighs. Every inch of her body is intimately familiar to him, yet no less fascinating for the familiarity. Briefly, he wonders whether it will always be so between them — this sure and smouldering passion that knows no bounds. For his part, Aragorn cannot imagine a day when his body will not hunger for hers, a time when the mere memory of her warmth will not stir his blood.  
  
 

Although somewhat loathe to wake her, at this point, Aragorn cannot resist the inviting curves before him. Slowly, sensuously, he cups his palm round Maranwe’s waist and moves downward, lightly trailing his hand across the roundness that delights him.   
  


With a voluptuous murmur, Maranwe responds to his touch, rolling halfway onto her stomach and stretching into his caress, extending one leg while leaving the other bent, opening herself to him. Aragorn’s fingers slide naturally into the intimate place she offers, while with his other hand he brushes her dark hair back from her face.   
  


His lips tickle her ear and his beard her neck, as his deep voice whispers into Maranwe’s consciousness.

  
“Good morning, Wife.” A strong forearm encircles her waist, pulling her closer.

  
Appreciatively, as she feels the extent of his wakefulness against her backside, Maranwe purrs, “Good morning, _indeed_ , Husband.” Extending one arm above her head, she turns her face and shoulders back to receive his kisses.  
  
 

Lazy minutes pass, as her body’s readiness rises to his. The fingers that awakened her weave a silky web of arousal across the front of her body--circling each breast slowly, caressing the planes of her abdomen and the rise of her mound, stroking the inside of her thighs, returning again and again to delve into her velvet softness. The lips that enticed her from her slumbers leave a trail of kisses along her throat, against her ear, across her face, atop her mouth.   
  


Somewhere in the midst of the nuzzles and nibbles, Aragorn after a time murmurs teasingly, “I have a surprise for you.”

  
Maranwe gives a small, pleasurable laugh. Glancing down between them, she observes in sultry tones, “I can see that.”

  
Aragorn’s face splits in a wide, wicked grin. “I mean after this,” he chides her with a knowing bump of the hips.  
  
 

Maranwe giggles richly, responding with quiet contentment, “I can imagine nothing more I could want or need beyond this moment.” However, the insistent lips that pull at his tell a different story.

  
Her husband thrills to her sentiment, yet he cannot resist a playful taunt. “Are you certain?”—he questions her—“Nothing?”—as his mouth encircles a nipple.  
  
 

“Mm-m-m-m-m-m…” The sound reverberates in her throat, plays against his ear. “Perhaps one thing…,” she confesses languidly, entwining her fingers into his long locks, as Aragorn continues to set her afire.

  
When Maranwe twists her upper body away from him and tilts her hips invitingly, Aragorn takes his cue. He enters her slowly, giving ample time for them both to appreciate the size and fit. Maranwe has the fleeting thought that he seems exceptionally well-endowed this morning. The tightness of the hold she has on him forces a purely carnal groan from Aragorn’s throat.  
  
 

With a prudence born of experience, Maranwe reaches blindly for a pillow, shoving it under her stomach, elevating and cushioning their angle. Aragorn, ever mindful of her pleasure, snakes a hand across the front of her thigh and in-between, to the spot that will hasten her satisfaction. As he begins, the rhythm of his upward, dipping thrusts is exquisite. Maranwe cannot keep silent, moaning his name and raising her hips to meet each pumping drive. Supporting himself on the strength of one forearm, Aragorn affords himself the sensual indulgence of viewing his own grinding love-making against Maranwe’s taut and tempting backside.  
  


Their bodies glow with the fluids of lust and exertion. Soon their limbs begin to tremble, a combination of fatigue and the impending explosion of ecstasy. Maranwe’s cries of affirmation pepper the air, as her enveloping sheath begins to pulsate uncontrollably around his manhood. He rides out her release, before spilling himself, swollen and potent, inside her.  
  
 

They fall back to the mattress, muscles like jelly, still joined for the next minute or two.

  
“I love you, Dunadan,” she murmurs beneath him.

  
“I love you, Lady Ranger,” he whispers against her temple.  
  
 

 

****************************** 

  
 

“I have something for you, also.” Now fully awake, Maranwe is bursting with eagerness to unveil the secret that lies under the bed.

  
Aragorn leans up on one elbow with interest. “Did you not just give it to me?” he drawls roguishly, whilst drawing lazy circles round the tender brown points of her breasts.

  
“No-o-o-o-o…….” she replies patiently, shaking her head at his incorrigible lasciviousness.     Despite the pleasant distraction, inspiration for a game comes to her, bringing with it a grin to her face. “Perhaps the famed tracker of the Dunedain would like to hunt for its hiding place,” she suggests coquettishly, squirming a little under his touch.

  
Aragorn takes up the challenge with a mischievous gleam in his grey eyes, parting the inside of her thighs and playfully beginning his search there. This earns him an equally playful cuff on the head.  
  
 

They laugh together, but he is not entirely deterred from his focus. Gazing down her body at his engrossed face still happily examining places she cannot see, Maranwe’s voice deepens, acknowledging her utter conquest by this man.  
  
 

“Despite the impressive dimensions to which _you_ have introduced me” –she pauses for emphasis—“it would not fit there.”

  
His roughly-haired torso rasps lightly along her skin, as he slides up to reward her for the compliment with a deep and lingering kiss.  
  
 

Then Aragorn bounds off the bed and begins his explorations in earnest.

  
 

**********************

  
 

“How came you by this volume?”  
  
 

Aragorn is almost reverent in his handling of the treasure she has given him. It is a bound book of Quenya verse, the songs and poems of the Eldar from beyond the Sea, lovingly preserved, painstakingly transcribed by ancient Elven hands on pages thin as onionskin yet strong as silk. Its cachehold is a finely carved wooden box, inlaid with the deep blue stone called _ondolune_ , once mined in the Weather Hills in the long ago Days of the North Kingdom, and in this age quite rare.

  
Maranwe has just returned from the bath house, where she lingered in the warm, spring-fed shower, knowing Aragorn to be deeply entranced in the passages of poetry he loves so well. Aragorn’s own bathing was a thing of haste, over before Maranwe was able to join him, eager as he was to immerse himself in the eloquent language. Now he lounges on his side on the bed, not having bothered to dress, turning the pages avidly. He glances up when she enters the room, posing his question in wonder.  
  
 

A warm smile lights Maranwe’s eyes. “I am pleased beyond measure that it pleases you so.”

  
Aragorn smoothes the fine-grained leather cover. “ ‘Tis a beautiful gift,” he declares, his very voice a caress. “Yet how……?” His searching look is one of frank curiosity.

  
Maranwe is padding about the room in her sheer, short bed gown, gathering up their dropped clothes, folding and placing them on her pillow. She answers with a mysterious twist of the lips. “You are not the only one to enlist the aid of the Elves in obtaining a gift.”

  
Aragorn eyes her with speculation, becoming momentarily distracted by the way her thin lounging garment clings to her skin, the see-through fabric hugging the twin spots where her dripping hair creates dark dispersions of moisture. Then the realization dawns.  
  
 

“Legolas.”

  
Maranwe nods, laughing at the almost grim note to his voice. “You sound as though you have discovered a conspiracy,” she mockingly accuses him from behind the armload of bedcovers she deposits at his feet. “Legolas sent word with the message runners that traveled to Rivendell in advance of our wedding day,” she elaborates with her customary economy of words. “Lord Elrond was both procurer and courier.” Too late for the front of her slip, Maranwe corrals her long locks with both hands and pulls them behind her, trying to shake out some of the excess droplets.  
  
 

Turning back to the pages before him, Aragorn remarks wryly, “I must be sure to thank the Elf for keeping secrets with my wife.”

  
As she proceeds with her morning ministrations, Maranwe smiles to herself at the good-natured masculine competition between the two. Bending at the waist, she flips her thick mane forward, stealing surreptitious glances at the engrossed Aragorn, as she combs her fingers vigorously through her tresses. His lean, muscled, and decidedly male form is a delight to her eyes and an intoxication to her senses. How often in a day does she fantasize about his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin, his scent in her nostrils? A dozen times? Two dozen? More? Never has a man so invaded her soul; so engaged her intellect; so commanded her passion. None other ever will.

  
Thumbing over a new bookleaf, Aragorn murmurs with a sense of triumph, “Ah, here it is…..” He carefully extracts the ribbon marker from the book’s spine and lays it down the center of the pages. His gaze seeks out Maranwe, who stops and straightens her spine to attend his words.  
  
 

“There is so much here I wish to share with you, _melamin_.” His voice is rich with intimate, limitless promise. “I must, of a necessity, teach you Elvish, that you may fully appreciate the depth and eloquence of these verses.”

  
“Agreed,” Maranwe responds, her hair hanging wildly about her face. She is a vision, and Aragorn briefly entertains the idea of pulling her back into bed with him. Maranwe twists her torso a little away and continues her drying ritual.

  
Book now all-but-forgotten, Aragorn finds himself appreciating the sight of his bride in her skimpy, satin shift, his attention captured by the revealing rise and teasing fall of the garment’s hemline as it follows the bend of her body and the motion of her arms. Soon, a familiar, favorite memory is stirred within him.  
  
 

He smiles slowly. “Tell me….Would you be a _well-behaved_ pupil?” he asks, the somewhat provocative jut of his jaw sending his smile into dangerously seductive territory.  
  
 

Maranwe looks back over her shoulder at him, forearm restraining her mane of hair, eyebrow raised, body heat rising. She knows full well the picture in his mind. The thread of sensual speculation weaves its way silently between them. Maranwe indulges her own imagination for a moment, before clasping her hands behind her back, dipping her chin, and joining his fantasy. 

  
“I would _try_ …….” she equivocates with questionable innocence, drawing out the last word tantalizingly. Her hips pivot slowly from side to side.   “Tell me…..Would you be a firm Lesson Master?”   
  


The already licentious grin on Aragorn’s face widens wickedly.  
  
 

“ ** _VERY_** ,” he promises, snapping the book shut and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He rises to his feet and pulls on his breeches. “Now for your surprise.”

  
Maranwe eyes him warily, backing up just a little.

  
Aragorn chuckles at the look on her face. “Do not worry.” His grey eyes dance with deviltry. “As much as I might like to,” –he pauses to wink at her suggestively—“we have an appointment with Lord Faramir.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's notes: "Ondolune" is completely made up on my part. The name merely means "blue stone" in Quenya.


	31. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Maranwe frowns, but says nothing. This is the first she has heard of any business of the Realm intruding so soon into their first day as husband and wife.

"Come." Aragorn takes her by the hand, leading her into the adjoining dressing room, which she has yet to see. The door opens upon a generous divided space, an area for each of them replete with two large, free-standing wardrobes, two chests of drawers, a pair of comfortable chairs, and a floor length mirror. The hinged halves of one clothes cupboard stand open, wherein all Maranwe's belongings from the cottage have mysteriously appeared. And there, laid out on a rack in the center of the room, is the clothing in which she feels most at home-the familiar garb of the Rangers of Ithilien in fresh complement, the costume she left behind in the ashes of Cair Andros along with her other life.

Maranwe steps forward slowly, running her hands across the dust-brown tunic, reveling in the supple deerskin beneath her fingers. The semi-sweet smell of leather permeates her nostrils. She picks up the narrow black leggings, holding them to her waist, already knowing that the length will be correct. There is a heavy-gauge, long-cuffed sweater of deepest green, and a short-sleeved cotton pullover of vibrant wine. There is even a new pair of lace-up boots, although her footwear and her belt were in fact the only things salvaged from her former attire.

Maranwe swivels into his gaze. "Thank you," she breathes, her countenance shining.

Aragorn inclines his head, acknowledging her gratitude. "There is one more thing."

Intrigued, Maranwe quickly quarters the area with darting eyes, finding nothing obvious. Aragorn smiles slyly. "You are not the only one to think of hiding a gift," he remarks obliquely, arms crossed, settling contentedly into his role. He does so enjoy teasing her.

In consternation, Maranwe glances around the roomful of possibilities, then shoots him a look halfway between withering and helpless. The air crackles with the explosion of Aragorn's laughter.

Grinning, Maranwe grabs her hairbrush from the dresser and fires it in Aragorn's direction. He plucks it from its trajectory effortlessly, smacking the back softly against his open palm with a wiggle of his eyebrows, before dropping the dual-purpose implement with a clatter to the floor. Another moment or two goes by; then he takes pity on her by posing a riddle.

"If your mind does not find it, your feet will."

The play of mental acuity across Maranwe's features is swift. With a sharp inhalation of inspiration, she drops onto her haunches, feeling inside first one boot, then the other. Her face mirrors the find her fingers make, and she rises triumphantly with a silken purse in hand. Aragorn looks on in tenderness, as she loosens the neck and tips the contents into her palm.

Surely it is a thing reminiscent of the skill of Erufailaru-this delicate ring of gold and _mithril_ , its contrasting leaves of metal depicting a scene symbolic of their love. It is with intimate eyes and a full heart that Maranwe recognizes the raised motif of a long-stemmed Rose intertwined with a branch of the White Tree.

     

Confidently, Aragorn steps forward, assuming the right to adorn his bride with the favor he has bestowed. As he slips the circlet onto her tiny finger, Maranwe leans into him.

"Truly, you know the ways to touch my soul, Dunadan," she murmurs happily. "I will treasure this gift unto the end of days." Her thanks takes the form of a deep and decidedly unvirginal kiss, of the kind that does not easily end.

With her senses swiftly succumbing to the warmth and scent of Aragorn's strong body, Maranwe's delicate hands soon slip round to cup his buttocks firmly, a grip she prefers even more in the horizontal plane. In response, the arms encircling her likewise stray downwards, sending one gliding palm up the back of her thigh and under her gown. Maranwe sighs softly in sensual delight.

"What business do we have with Faramir?" she complains mildly, looking up at him with an inviting wiggle of silk against his naked torso. "Are we not allowed even a few days to ourselves?" She snakes one hand around the inside of his waistband, brushing the dark trail that leads south from his navel with her fingertips, pulling the garment away from his body and looking with interest down the front. "After all, we **_are_** newly married." Her voice is somewhat petulant and her meaning crystal clear.

For once, Aragorn pushes her away, depositing her gently by the shoulders beside the framework hung with fresh travelwear.

"Get dressed, Maranwe," he instructs her, smiling indulgently. "You will welcome my plans for our lovers' moon." The caress of his hand on her cheek robs his words of any rejection. "We have all the time in the world, my love," he promises softly, leaving her with a tender kiss.

After Aragorn departs into his own dressing area, Maranwe obligingly dons her new garb. Not entirely immune to vanity, she takes a moment to survey herself in the long reflective glass. In the face of the past months of relative inactivity, it has been a challenge to maintain her fitness and form. She is not unhappy with what she sees, yet she vows to take the Mistress of Rohan up on her proposal of training together. Maranwe smiles. Although she would suspect that Eowyn enjoys as much of a certain type of physical activity as she herself does, love-making is not the only form of exercise available.

When Aragorn reappears from around the partition, he too is wearing the comfortable costume of a wilderness traveler-his Ranger's raiment, scored with the character of many years, infused with the spirit of myriad journeys. Smiling slowly in unison, they both take in the other's appearance.

Maranwe is every bit the diminutive warrior, a force not to be underestimated, on the battlefield nor anywhere else. Aragorn remembers that powerful moment, when first he focused on her as a woman-her eyes flashing, her face flushed, her emotions raw-an irresistible, incongruous mix of strength and vulnerability. From that moment forward, he never ceased wanting to nurture and protect her.

Aragorn looks as he did the first time Maranwe saw him, rising strong and valiant beside her on the field of battle and loss. Her reaction this day is the same as it was then: a visceral upsurge of pulse-tripping, heat-inducing enticement and enchantment, drowning all else-the independent Lady Ranger suddenly willing to surrender her heart.

Moving eagerly into his arms, Maranwe's fingers play across the well-worn and oft-repaired material. Her green-eyed gaze meets his with quiet amusement. "If this is your idea of a guise in which to walk the streets of the City, I do not think it will work." Stroking his bearded cheek tenderly, she voices only the truth. "This face is much too remarkable to pass unnoticed, by the female population, certainly."

With an uncomfortable shrug, he brushes off her allusion to his allure, instead hugging her tightly and planting a kiss on her forehead. "Time to go, Lady Ranger." he decrees mysteriously, arm across her shoulders as they re-enter the bedchamber.

"Aragorn!!!" Maranwe's voice is fraught with disbelief. She rushes to the open window, there to stare in wonder at the roses of Ithilien eagerly opening their milky petals to the new day's light.

"Never have I seen such stalwart blossoms," she marvels. "They did not wither nor die." She reaches out with tentative fingers, scarcely daring to touch for fear of breaking the spell. "They are as though frozen in time."

Aragorn considers. "Another gift, perhaps, from she who wields the Power of the Ring of Adamant," he suggests gently.

Maranwe turns, and suddenly clarity is hers. "Lady Galadriel."

Aragorn nods. "There is _so_ much I want to share with you," he says again, almost vehemently, holding out his hand. "Leave them. They will be here, ever-fresh, ever-green, when we return," he predicts with certainty.

************************

Far above them, the Timekeeper's Bell strikes ten, as the newlyweds arrive at the crested doors beneath the Citadel. Upon the lintel rides the seal of the Royal Stables of the White City-a miracle of engineering, the housing for the Steeds of the King carved out centuries ago in a place secure from outlying attackers.

Maranwe is nearly consumed with curiosity, until she sees their beloved mounts, Bragi and Freya, being led forward, clearly provisioned for a lengthy period of time in the wilds. Stretching on tiptoe, she pulls her husband down for a quick kiss of excitement, just as their welcoming party draws close.

Tongue in cheek and twinkle in eye, Faramir greets them with a nod, inquiring, "I trust your first-night's slumbers were refreshing?"

"Satisfying beyond compare," Aragorn supplies promptly, with a good-natured wink.

This lapse into juvenile male innuendo garners a withering look from Maranwe for the two men. Then she notices the look of embarrassment on the stable boy's face, and she winces inwardly. When the lad transfers Freya's reins to her hands, he cannot even meet her eyes, although Maranwe tries to smile kindly at him. Keeping his gaze averted, the youth withdraws with reddening cheeks. A philosophical Maranwe decides there are certainly _less_ healthy images a young man could ponder beside their bedroom activities.

With the chestnut stallion delivered in kind, Faramir and Aragorn clasp forearms warmly. "May the road rise up in joy to meet you, ere you both return safely once again," the Prince of Ithilien bids them. His soft brown gaze holds great sincerity. "The affairs of Gondor will be well-tended in your absence."

A look of quiet confidence passes between the two men. "I have no doubt of that," Aragorn states simply.

Faramir turns now to Maranwe, but addresses her husband. "By your leave…."

Aragorn's eyebrows rise in amusement. "She makes her own choices," he replies evenly.

Laughing, Maranwe and Faramir embrace quickly. "Forget not the hidden pathways beside the River," he advises her, ever the Captain of Gondor to her Ranger.

"I will not," Maranwe assures him, memory misting her vision momentarily.

Then Faramir steps back, as she bounces onto Freya's back and follows her husband up the long tunnel to the Courtyard of the Fountain.

**********************

 

Against the blue sky above their heads, the silhouette of a Winged Messenger dips and soars on the summer updrafts. As they leave the environs of Minas Tirith behind and top the last rise, the lovers dismount. They gaze back across the Pelennor to the ancient City of Kings, resplendent in the midday sun. Then, as one, they turn their faces to the North and the trail ahead.

Maranwe inhales deeply, merely content to be breathing the wilderness air once again. Curiously, not really caring in her contentment, she asks, "Do we have a destination, Dunadan?"

Aragorn wraps her from behind in his embrace. "Up the River and over the High Pass," he intones softly in her ear, "to a pool beside a stream, and a campsite in lee of a great rock-a place where once love was kindled."

Eyes liquid with emotion, Maranwe recites the words in almost a whisper. "It is a wild and beautiful trip in the summer."

Aragorn's deep voice cocoons them, as he turns Maranwe to meet his soulful grey gaze of limitless love. The intensity of feeling he sees in her eyes is a reflection of his own.

"So I was once told….."

Their lips meet, as if for the first time, as if for the last time-the fire that lingers, ever simmering, just below the surface.

In all the long years that follow, they never fail to make this journey in celebration of their union-rekindling their love, renewing their spirits, reliving the time when two wanderers of the wilderness found each other in the face of all odds.

For thus they would always be to each other, the Lady Ranger and the Dunadan.

THE END

??????   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was where the original story ended. After all, the primary conflict/climax/resolution was all about the two of them getting together, a goal now achieved.
> 
> I do have nine tenths of a sequel. If there is sufficient interest and supreme patience on the part of my readership, I will try to follow through. It will be difficult. Unlike this story, which was finished when I started to post it, the second story would be waiting on the vagaries of my life to be completed.
> 
> A thousand thanks for all the kind words along the way. You can never know how much that has meant to me.


End file.
